On My Knees
by Kaynara
Summary: Sam/Dean. After killing a demon, the boys find a little girl it has been holding captive for a year. AU after Time is on My Side. NC-17. The boys are not mine, but how I wish they were.
1. Part 1

On My Knees (Train for Nowhere)

On My Knees (Train for Nowhere)

Part 1

They drove into town just after sunup, one year to the day since Dean should have died.

On the trail of a demon who had been killing its way down the eastern seaboard, they finally caught up with it at a speck on the map an hour north of Savannah. They stopped to sleep until dark at the only hotel in town, an inn with ivy dripping like entrails and a formal dining room, and couldn't they just sleep in the car?

Sam was giving Dean that look, though. The one that said, "If you don't quit bitching, I'm gonna put my huge-ass fist through your face." He may have said it out loud, too, so Dean rolled his eyes and shut the hell up, even though the inn was three times as expensive as the places they typically stayed and right across the street from an actual _gazebo_.

"This is nice," Sam said when the bellhop left them in peace, having relieved Dean's wallet of five dollars.

Sam flopped down on the bed, stretching his long arms over his head and rucking up the bedspread in the process. Dean grunted a reply and began rifling in his duffle bag.

When Dean was three, his parents took him to Disney World.

They stayed outside the parks, some run-down roadside chain that was all they could afford with John starting a new job and Sam already on the way. The first night, Dean practically flew back to the room having scoring a hug from Cinderella, the second most beautiful women in the world after his mother. One moment he was bouncing on the bed, too hyped to even contemplate sleep. The next, Mary was scooping him onto her hip, and Dean caught a breath of her clean, vanilla-scented hair, before he was being deposited inside cool sheets.

"Don't lay on the bedspread, baby, it's dirty." She bent to nuzzle his neck, and Dean stretched his arms up for a hug, keeping her close an extra few seconds.

Over the years, Dean had crashed on a thousand bedspreads—come-crusted and sweat-stained—in a thousand motels. He and Sam returned from hunts with a dozen wounds too minor to mention and a pervading bone-weariness that had them collapsing, still in their clothes, on the nearest flat surface.

Next to some of the places they had stayed, the Grayford Inn was downright palatial. Which didn't explain Dean's urge to explain the whole bedspread thing to Sam. He settled for aiming a kick at Sam's shoe as he crossed to the window.

"So I was thinking," Sam said, ignoring the kick. He folded his arms under his head. "We should do something today."

"Okay," Dean said, shaking a line of salt across the windowsill.

It was easier to agree. If he put up a fuss, Sam would want to talk about things that Dean would prefer not to discuss. Ever.

Like what happened a year ago. Sam had saved Dean from the pit like he promised, but beating Lilith had a cost. When all was said and done, it wasn't Sam in there anymore, not the Sam he knew anyway. Dean spent the next five months chasing Sam across thirteen states, finally catching up to him in Arizona, at the fucking Grand Canyon of all places, for some stupid epic showdown. Dean had nearly put a bullet in Sam's head that day, a second loaded in the chamber for himself.

In all honesty, Dean still wasn't certain how he got_ his_ Sam back. Or why, in the seven months since, almost everything in their lives had returned to normal. They still lived out of their duffels and killed evils sons of bitches, while furthering Dean's quest to eat pie in each of the lower forty-eight states. The demon population was waning, the result of in-fighting and Sam and Dean's steadfast efforts. A continuous stream of poltergeists and spirits and monsters of all sizes would guarantee their job security for a few more years at least, and Dean felt optimistic for the first time in a long time about them winning the ultimate war. Everything was the same as it had always been, with one notable difference. The same night Dean pointed a gun at Sam's head, Sam kissed him in the shower.

It started innocently enough, Sam too weak to stand on his own and Dean so goddamned grateful that he didn't think, just shuffled them both into the tiny motel bathroom, drew the curtain behind them and threw on the taps.

Sam was filthy, covered in dirt and blood and fluids Dean refused to think about. Wanting to get Sam clean, Dean wrapped an arm around his waist, used the other to dump a too-small bottle of watery shampoo over Sam's head. He scrubbed hard, pretty sure his fingernails were digging grooves into Sam's scalp. He thought it was just confused biology when he felt Sam's erection poking his hip. Sam was exhausted, wounded, confused.

Dean's attempt at levity—"This ain't a sponge bath and it sure as hell don't come with a happy ending"—died on his lips when he saw the expression on Sam's face. Something soft and needy, but underneath it was steel.

Dean would have backed up if he weren't sure Sam's knees would buckle without the support. The air in the cramped stall was thick with steam and their coupled breaths, making it hard to breathe, to think. He'd hold on to that after.

"Dean," Sam said, and his voice sounded pale and paper-thin.

"Sammy," he'd croaked, but that was hardly a protest, and Sam didn't take it as such.

Leaning forward, he brushed Dean's mouth with his, dry-lipped and first-kiss sweet even though, if Dean were counting—which he wasn't—it was the second. After, Sam rested his forehead against Dean's for a long moment. Waiting for Dean to make the next move.

Dean had been rationalizing and denying for so long he could probably win some medals in it, but it didn't take a genius to figure what was going on here. He and Sam had sold their souls for each other, watched each other die more than once. So what if they needed a little physical contact by way of reassurance? What they did in the privacy of their own room wasn't anybody's business but theirs, and here beneath a piss-trickle lukewarm shower in Nowhere, Arizona, Dean could almost believe that.

Sam was watching him with those sad, seen-too-much eyes, and Dean made a noise in his throat and clamped his hands on either side of Sam's face.

"This is beyond fucked, Sam."

Sam had blinked shampoo out of his eyes and laughed, honest-to-god laughed.

"Really, Dean?" Sam said. "You don't say."

So Dean tugged Sam forward by his face. He kissed Sam, and Sam kissed back, and it wasn't gentle anymore but _sure_—rough slicks of tongue on tongue and stubble rubbing, lips going red and raw with the effort.

The water had run cold, but Dean was burning in his skin when he took Sam awkwardly in hand, jerked Sam like he would himself because he didn't know any other way. They slept together in one of the beds, facing each other with only their knees touching.

In the morning, Sam gave Dean a long open-mouthed kiss with no regard for their questionable breath, and Dean knew he wouldn't be denying either of them.

Seven months later, lying on a yellow-and-blue bedspread at the luxurious Grayford Inn, Sam used his elbows to elevate himself to a sitting position. Pushing Sam-stubborn bangs out of his eyes, he blinked at Dean in surprise. He might have looked a little disappointed, too, like he wasn't expecting an easy assent and had maybe prepared arguments.

"Really?" Sam asked. "I mean, okay. Good. Let's get something to eat."

Dean just snorted and went to get his wallet. He would rather engage in a little Sammy-celebration time than have some awkward conversation about feelings any day.

Dean refused to eat downstairs in the dining room—"Two words, Sam: lace doilies"—so they walked across the street to the country store and filled a wax-paper bag with about eight bucks' worth of penny-candy, bickering good-naturedly about whether gummi bears or worms were better and how to achieve the right fruit to chocolate ratio. Then, because Sam was bitching about candy for dinner, they stopped by the coffee shop and picked up a couple of subs and coffees, too.

"Hey, don't eat that yet," Sam said when they were back in their room, Dean reaching for a sour gummi worm having devoured half his meatball sub.

"What, I gotta finish my dinner first?" Dean chewed a worm with his mouth open.

"Just hold off on the candy, okay?" Sam made a grab for the bag, which Dean held out of reach. "Wait until . . . "

He pulled something out of his pocket, and Dean arched a brow when he saw the joint lying in the middle of Sam's palm.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Sammy."

Sam went into the bathroom, angling his head for Dean to follow. He got to work rolling up a towel to stuff in the doorjamb.

They sat on the bathroom floor, lengthwise so their legs would fit, facing each other across the pattern of tiles. Silently, Sam extended a hand, and Dean raised a brow again but obediently gave up his lighter.

It had been a while since Dean had done this, a few years at least, and he took the first hit too hard, started to choke. Snorting, Sam went to the sink to fill a plastic cup with water.

"Easy," Sam said, grinning.

Dean shot him a look over the rim of the cup, a sneaking suspicion occurring to him.

"Did you smoke pot in high school?" Dean demanded.

Sam just rolled his eyes and worked the joint free from Dean's fingers.

"I should so kick your ass for that," Dean said lazily.

But he was already starting to feel that calm, floating feeling and now seemed as good a time as any to go for the candy. Which tasted fucking awesome, by the way, and maybe this wasn't the worst idea Sam had ever had.

After they'd eaten half the chocolate and most of the gummi snacks, Sam started to do that thing where he kept darting these soft, tentative looks at Dean's face. Dean finally took pity on him and sighed, said, "Jesus, Sam. How did you ever get laid? You don't know the first thing about subtle—"

He had a few more choice comments, but the words got sort of muffled when Sam's lips attacked him.

Sam tasted like sour peaches mixed with sweet smoke, which wasn't such a bad combination. They stumbled their way into the bedroom, and Dean made sure to pull down the bedspread before pushing Sam down on the bed. He kissed Sam's mouth and jaw and the sweat-salty side of his neck. And if he kissed Sam's temple once, quickly, he was pretty sure Sam didn't notice, what with Dean's hand curling around his dick.

After Sam came, babbling nonsense, he gazed up at Dean with huge eyes, all pupil, and then rolled Dean onto his back and kissed his neck and chest until Dean felt like he had to say, "Just get on with it already," so he wouldn't keep moaning like a little bitch at the damp press of Sam's tongue. Sam just chuckled and worked Dean's jeans open. Then he slithered down Dean's body and gave him what felt like, if not the best blowjob of his life, a damn good imitation.

After, Dean lay with an arm flung over Sam's chest just because it happened to fall that way and he was too fucked-out and exhausted to move it. The sun slipped in through the blinds, rolled over them in lazy waves. Dean was about two seconds from passing out when Sam propped himself on an elbow.

"So," Sam said, "better than last year, right?"

Sam flashed his corniest grin, and Dean had to laugh.

--

Dean had set the alarm in his cell phone to wake them at seven. As it turned out, he didn't need the convenience of modern technology. Dean woke up just fine when one of Sam's arms smacked him in the nose.

"Uh, ow," he said, rolling to deliver a punishment blow to Sam's stomach. Then he noticed that Sam was crying in his sleep, a few tears sluicing from the corners of his closed eyes to drip down his cheeks.

Dean pinned Sam's wrist before he wound up with a black eye as well, and leaned over Sam's thrashing form.

"Sam. Sammy. Wake up, kiddo," he whispered along with a few other things he'd be embarrassed to repeat outside the privacy of their totally overpriced hotel room.

Sam's eyes flew open, the remnants of the nightmare lingering around his irises.

"Dean?"

"Crying after sex?" Without thinking, Dean used the pad of his thumb to wipe under Sam's eyes and where his nose had dripped snot on his upper lip. "That's pretty friggin' girly, Sam."

"I was having a dream."

"Thank God." He let Sam push him away, pull himself together. "You remember anything?"

Sam sat up, running a hand through sweat-damp hair.

"Yeah, I don't know. It's really vague, man."

"Humor me."

Sam's eyes narrowed like he was struggling to hold onto a memory that was already fading.

"Uh, there was a house."

"Around here?"

"Farther north. New England, maybe? There was a couple, a man and a woman, mid-30s. Good-looking. They'd been stabbed through their hearts," he said roughly.

"Sounds pleasant," Dean murmured. "Now did this feel like a vision? Or just a case of you watching too much snuff before bed?"

"I think—I think it already happened. It's like, I was there, watching it happen, but I couldn't . . . I don't know, man."

"We'll figure it out." Dean smacked Sam's shoulder before rolling out of bed. "Get dressed, dude, we got a demon to waste."

They showered and packed up their supplies before heading out to the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Bobby's source said the demon was squatting.

They left the car half a mile down the road and hiked up to the property.

The place was a crumbling two stories of molded wood and hastily scrawled graffiti. Cracked and dusty windows signified years of neglect and a group of bored teenagers somewhere in the vicinity. The moonless sky gave enough cover for them to get inside unnoticed, and years of practice had them functioning as a single entity, searching rooms until they got to the upstairs bedroom where it was hiding.

Judging by the sigils she had painted on the walls, the eight human bodies they found along the way, and the freaking altar, this chick wasn't just in town for sightseeing. Sam and Dean didn't keep her alive long enough to answer questions.

She was small but size didn't really matter with demons, and this lady put up a hell of a fight. Still, they exorcised the bitch easy enough, if you didn't count Dean's dislocated shoulder or the knife Sam took to the ribs—luckily his sweatshirt absorbed most of the damage.

It wouldn't have been a very momentous job at all, except for the fact that, before Dean torched the place—"Our fingerprints are everywhere, dude. Not to mention all those bodies and demonic hooha . . . "—Sam decided to do one last walk-through to check for survivors. Dean's grumbles of "I didn't see anyone," and "C'mon, bitch, pop my shoulder back" seemed not at all to weaken his resolve.

Grudgingly, Dean trailed Sam through damp rooms littered with crumbled newspaper and crunched glass, down a broken staircase and into the basement where, in a back corner, crouched in a pile of pink insulation, they found a child.

--

They took the girl with them because, what else were they supposed to do with her?

At least, Dean was pretty sure it was a girl. It was kind of hard to tell with its hair filthy and hanging in its face and its clothes damp and dirt-crusted. But the face, in the brief moments the kid dug it from the curve of Sam's shoulder, seemed sort of delicate and girl-like.

She (Dean was going with that till someone told him otherwise) pitched a fit when Sam tried to strap her in the back of the Impala, thrashing and moaning in this low, guttural tone that made Dean want to cover his ears. Finally Sam just let her sit in his lap up front and gave the seatbelt enough slack to cover them both.

Dean drove fifteen miles with his shoulder throbbing and the kid silent as stone in Sam's lap until he found a suitable motel. The dingy roadside chain was set alongside a sports' bar and seemed the kind of place that wouldn't object to two guys covered in blood and muck and a small child who looked like a third-world refugee.

"Wait here," Dean said, just in case the guy at the front desk got nosy.

He returned several minutes later with a key for Room Four and a couple Cokes from an antiquated vending machine. Sam was leaning against the car, the kid still clinging to him like skin. Dean jerked his head, and Sam straightened up and shifted a little to support the unaccustomed weight at his front before trooping after Dean.

Inside, Dean set the Cokes on top of the TV and walked straight into the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and promptly threw up.

"Dean?" Sam called from the other room.

"Gimme a minute," he muttered, hocking bile into the toilet. He drew a long ragged breath and rested shaking hands against the porcelain, trying to will images of children and fire from his brain.

"Dean?" Sam said again, more insistent this time, and Dean got to his feet and washed out his mouth before going back into the room.

"A little help here, dude? I'm useless till you put my shoulder back."

Sam raised his eyebrows in a typical Sammy-look of frustration. He glanced meaningfully at the child still hanging on him and then back at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. Trying not to jar his shoulder, he crossed to the TV and spent a pathetic few seconds trying to open a can of Coke one-handed. Then he went to his bag and dug out his flask, tucking it into his waistband. He walked back to Sam, soda in hand.

"You thirsty?" he asked.

For several seconds, the kid didn't lift her head from the folds of Sam's shirt. Finally she pulled away and tipped up her face, which was damp and pink where it wasn't covered in dirt.

"I'm Dean," he said and held out the can. "And the big guy you're riding is my brother, Sam."

Wide eyes turned to Sam, whose smile only quivered for a second before he firmed his jaw.

"It's okay," Sam said. "Go on."

Dean held the can steady, waiting. Finally, she snatched it out of his hand and took a long sip. She hiccupped and drank some more.

Dean extracted the flask from his waistband and, fumbling the cap off, sprinkled some of the liquid into his palm. Deliberately, and before she could freak, Dean dipped his thumb in the water and drew a broad swatch across the kid's forehead.

As expected, she sucked in a surprised breath and choked as a gulp of soda slid down the wrong pipe. But her head didn't start to sizzle, and Dean relaxed a little.

"It's okay," Sam said, patting the kid's back with his big awkward paw, and amazingly she started to settle. Dean wondered if maybe she thought Sam was her own personal human-sized teddy bear.

Dean met his eyes and shrugged—_I had to_—and Sam bit his lip and nodded.

"Hey," Sam said softly, "I'm gonna put you down now, okay?"

The kid twisted her free hand in the front of Sam's hoodie, her eyes flashing with panic that made Dean flinch.

"No, it's okay," Sam assured. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

She hesitated, uncertain, but after a moment Dean saw her grip on Sam's shirt loosen marginally. Sam carried her to the cheap Formica kitchen set and deposited her in one of the chairs.

"I'll be right over there," Sam said, pointing. He hefted a second chair before crossing the room to the spot where Dean was waiting. He set it down, indicated for Dean to take a seat.

"Hurry up," Dean instructed. "Then I'll look at your ribs."

He let Sam help him off with his jacket, jaw clenched against the pain.

"Anterior dislocation," Sam observed. "Should be easy to reset."

"Easy," Dean echoed. He and Sam had done this for each other a dozen times, and it sucked every single one.

"Come lie down on the bed," Sam said gently, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Just do it," he muttered.

Sam arched a brow.

"Just lie down on the bed," he said evenly, and Dean groaned and stood up. Sam always liked to do this with Dean lying down, claimed it was less painful. Dean just thought it made him look like an idiot.

He walked to the closest bed and got up on his hands (hand) and knees. Sam tried to be gentle but it still hurt like a bitch when he bent Dean's elbow out and drew his arm perpendicular to the floor. Slowly, Dean eased down on his stomach, waited.

"Try to relax," Sam said, and Dean didn't bother with a snarky comeback, just grit his teeth. One of Sam's hands grasped the inside of his elbow, the other encircling his wrist.

Across the room, the kid kept sneaking glances at them in between sips of Coke.

"On the count of three," Sam said.

Naturally he started pulling on two, the bastard, and the combined efforts of Sam and gravity popped Dean's shoulder back into its socket. Almost immediately, the sickening pain started to recede, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Dean could deal with that.

Sam helped Dean roll onto his back, careful to keep his injured arm tucked to his chest.

"Are you going to puke again?" Sam asked after a few seconds.

"No," Dean said when he was fairly sure it was a promise he could keep. He sat up, ignoring one last wave of nausea, and gave his shoulder a gingerly roll. "Lift up your shirt."

When he was satisfied Sam wouldn't bleed to death, Dean told him to get his laptop out.

"We should see if there are missing kids in the area."

"She's not from the area," Sam said. "And I don't need the laptop; we know who she is, Dean."

"Not for sure we don't."

"We've got a pretty good idea."

Sam crossed to his duffel and dug around for a while. After a moment, he pulled out a creased sheet of paper, and Dean didn't have to wait for Sam to unfold the page and hold it up to the light to know what he'd see there. Despite the shoddy photocopy, they could see the girl's features well enough. She had long, light hair and dark eyes and a smile broken by a set of missing baby teeth.

"I can't believe you kept that," Dean said, but that was a lie. Of course Sam had kept it.

Dean remembered Sammy coming home one day when he was seven or eight, asking for money for school pictures.

"Those are a total rip off," Dean had told him. "Anyway, we don't need any pictures of you. We know what your dork face looks like."

For dinner that night he had made hot dogs and the waxy green beans Sam loved, and they both pretended it wasn't an apology.

"Look at her," Sam said now, all six-foot-five of him hovering anxiously. "She's filthy, Dean."

Dean cocked a brow at his brother, remembering suddenly that they were disgusting, too—dripping in demon's blood and smoke-singed.

"Not sure you're one to talk," he said.

"I'm serious. Shouldn't we . . . give her a bath or something, man?"

"You wanna give her a bath, Sam?"

That shut Sam up, at least for a few seconds.

"It's her, Dean. I know it is."

Whenever a hunter was killed, the others heard about it pretty fast. Dean had always heard that the Omeras were good hunters, and when a demon murdered them in their home a year ago, a bunch of hunters, Ellen and Bobby included, put out an APB on their daughter. Asked other hunters to keep their eyes peeled. Nobody expected her to turn up, at least not alive.

"Dean, what are we gonna do?" Sam was saying, and that was a first—Sam not offering an opinion.

"Fuck." Dean stalked across the room and picked up his phone. "Fuck."

He scrolled through his address book, pressed a key and waited.

"How soon can you get to Georgia?" he said in place of hello. A beat. "Oh, I'll pay you, Bela."

--

Bela arrived just after sunup, looking the same as always which meant freaking awesome. In an evil slut sort of way. She gave Dean a peach-glossed smile that was way too cheerful for six in the morning. In one hand, she held a small black duffel bag, in the other the remains of an iced latte.

"You two look absolutely dreadful," she remarked, siphoning coffee through a straw.

Dean couldn't exactly disagree. During the night, he and Sam had taken turns ducking under the shower spray for about twenty seconds, trying to jar themselves awake. Around three, Sam tried to coax the kid into lying down for a little while. She just stared at him with those big, haunted eyes of hers until Sam relented and let her sit up at the table all night while he and Dean feigned interest in two-man poker and tried not to pass out.

"I can't believe you called her," Sam said, not bothering to lower his voice as Bela made a slow study of the room and removed her coat. She folded the trench carefully and gave it to Dean, who let it fall to the floor. He reached for her coffee, the straw slipping from between her lips with a slight sucking sound.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

"Didn't have a lot of choices, Sam," Dean said, ignoring that. He took a noisy slurp of Bela's latte. "Missouri and Ellen are too far away. Ruby tried to kill us, last time we saw each other. You got a better idea?"

Sam said nothing and glared at Bela with a weird expression Dean couldn't name.

"Why don't you go get us some breakfast, Sam?" Dean suggested, eager to avoid a showdown, and that was a dumb idea because the second Sam went for the door, the kid freaked.

"Hey," Sam said, crouching down in front of the kid even though he still towered over her that way. "I'm just going to get breakfast. What do you like to eat, huh? Do you like cereal?"

It was five more minutes before Sam could pry himself away, and when he was gone, the kid glanced anxiously between Dean and Bela. She didn't seem to like her options, and Dean couldn't exactly blame her.

"Okay," Dean said. He didn't kneel, figuring she would see through the gesture, but tried to twist his lips into something resembling a smile. "This is Bela. She's a, well friend's kinda pushing it. Let's go with fellow human being on a good day."

Bella glared at him, and Dean coughed.

"Anyway, she's gonna help you get cleaned up, okay? And when you get done, Sam'll be back—that's the big guy—with something to eat. Sound good to you?"

The kid hesitated, chewed her lower lip like Sammy used to when he was thinking something over. She still seemed uncertain. Bela surprised him then by coming over and holding out her hand, palm side up.

"Let's get you clean, hmm? Come on," she said, her tone all-business but softer than Dean had ever heard it sound, even when she was conning him.

After a beat, the kid slid her hand into Bela's and allowed herself to be led into the bathroom. Bela glanced at Dean briefly before closing the door, and after a minute, he heard running water and dragged himself toward it, knocked.

The door opened a crack, and Bela popped her head out.

"Yes, Dean?" she asked. The narrowed eyes belied the sweetness in her tone, and Dean was reminded of a succubus he met in New Orleans. He'd had to remove her head eventually, but Jesus, what a night.

He lowered his voice even though he was pretty sure the kid couldn't hear him over the bath taps.

"Look. We think a demon's been holding her the last year."

"You said this all on the phone last night," Bela explained patiently. Her smile suggested that she thought Dean wasn't, maybe, all that bright.

"Sam and I . . . we just wanna make sure she's okay."

Bela frowned and nudged the door open a little more so she could cock a hip in the doorway.

"You're aware I'm not a doctor, Dean?"

"Just check her over," he growled.

Bela shut the door in his face, and Dean opted to take that as a sign of agreement.

--

The bathroom door opened an hour later, and Bela emerged. She glanced around the room, aiming deliberate eye rolls at Sam and Dean at the table, before turning back to the bathroom.

"Come on out, now," she said, her voice firm but gentle, kind without being patronizing, and Dean found himself almost not despising her for a second. The idea was enough to have him shuddering, and he took a cleansing gulp of his coffee.

After a moment, the kid stepped out, hair damp and brushed back from her face, skin clean and pink from the bath. She was wearing a black Metallica T-shirt, so long on her it skimmed her knees.

"That's my shirt," Dean said, shooting an accusatory look at Bela. "How did you—?"

Sam kicked him under the table, and Dean coughed and let the rest of the protest die.

"Hi," Sam said, flashing the kid one of those big earnest grins of his, the kind that always worked on the frightened or grieving. He gestured to the food spread over the table. "Are you hungry? There's Cheerios, and milk and . . ."

While Sam demonstrated his cooking talents putting together a bowl of cereal, Dean followed Bela across the room.

"I didn't exactly have a lot of notice," she said, rifling through her bag. "I had to make do with the airport shops."

She handed Dean a few miniature t-shirts and a pair of track pants, a three-pack of underwear with "I heart NY" emblazoned on the backs. On top of the pile she set a pair of hideous-green flip-flops with butterflies on the soles.

"She's small for seven," Bela said accusingly, like Dean had deliberately misled her. "They might be a bit big."

So he wouldn't be tempted to thank her or, equally likely, ask what spawned the rare display of human kindness, Dean scooped a hand under Bela's elbow and escorted her outside onto the balcony.

"So?" he said when they were safely out of earshot.

"So," Bela said, pointedly smoothing her blouse where Dean had manhandled her, "the girl seems to be perfectly fine. No cuts or bruises or broken bones. There's no sign that anyone's laid a hand on her, in fact."

"You're sure about that?" Dean said, and Bela's eyes narrowed again, a frown twisting that beautiful face.

"Of course I'm not sure. I've no way of knowing what may have been done to her, just that she appears to be healthy now."

Bela leaned into the railing, and Dean followed her gaze down two floors to the in-ground pool, leaf-choked and empty. Someone had abandoned a pair of bright orange water-wings, and they floated now in a dark corner of the water.

"What will you do with her?" Bela asked him, her eyes still staring into the pool. Her tone was casual, as though they were discussing some interesting artifact Dean had picked up on a hunt.

"Whadda you think? Once we're sure she's . . . all right . . . we'll take her to a police station or something."

"I see."

And the thing was, he knew better than to ask, he totally did, but—j

"You see what?"

"The brothers' Winchester have many more demons to battle."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Bela said. "I merely thought, after Sam got you out of your deal, the two of you might give up your hunting. Settle down perhaps."

"We've got work to do." Dean shifted, uneasy under her level gaze. "You remember what work is?"

"Are you really going to chastise me for being a thief, Dean? You of all people."

"We're saving people. What's your excuse?"

"Money." She smiled. "I like having a lot of it."

Dean snorted and turned away.

"You'll want to be sure she's not a danger to others before you hand her over to the police," Bela said. "Will you go to Bobby?"

"Stay away from him," Dean told her. "You harass any of our friends, any of our dad's friends, I'll come down on you so hard you won't know what hit you."

Bela raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" And then, her tone more thoughtful, "He doesn't know about you two. Does he."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"You and Sam," she said slowly, her full lips curving around the words. "Bobby doesn't know you're screwing each other."

Dean shoved her against the railing so hard he knew she'd be feeling the bruises in the morning, where metal impressed delicate flesh. He glared into her eyes, watched the humor fade from her gaze and become the thing that comes before fear. He felt vaguely ashamed, vaguely aroused, and the combination had him lowering his arm from her throat and taking a step back. Pulling a few bills from his pocket, he stuffed them into her hand.

"Get lost. We're done here."

"You think I care," Bela said, smiling as she tucked the money away in a pocket of her pants. "That is matters to me one way or the other. Honestly, Dean, what possible difference could it make to me that you and Sam are fucking? Though, I suppose I am vaguely disappointed. I figured I'd go to bed with one of you eventually. Ah, well."

Dean shook his head.

"You're one crazy bitch, you know that?"

Bela just smiled.

"May I use your bathroom, please?"

"What do you mean, 'one of us'?" he asked. But the door had already closed behind her.

--

"What'd she take?" Sam asked half an hour later. He poured orange juice into a paper cup and set it in front of the kid.

Dean slurped a mouthful of Cheerios, muttered, "Watch."

Some milk dribbled out of his mouth, and Sam rolled his eyes. Dean made a stupid face back. The kid drank the juice Sam had poured and watched them both with those big solemn eyes.

"Whose?" Sam asked tiredly, and Dean raised a brow. "Whose watch did she take, Dean?"

"Both of 'em."

"Great," Sam sighed. "What now?"

"Now we get some sleep," Dean said, swallowing the last of his cereal. "I can't think straight anymore, and I doubt you can either. Go 'head and lie down for a few hours; I'll take first watch."

"What about . . .?" Sam glanced across the table, and Dean followed his gaze, frowned.

"She could probably use some sleep too—" Dammit, he wasn't going to talk about her like she wasn't sitting a foot away. He coughed and started over.

"You must be getting sleepy, huh? This one," he said, jerking a thumb at Sam, "whines like a little bitch when he's tired."

She didn't smile but she didn't look scared either, so Dean allowed himself a moment's triumph.

While Sam cleaned up from breakfast, Dean crossed to the bed farthest from the door. He drew down the bedspread and tried to make the pillows look fluffy and inviting. He returned to the table and sat down again.

"So that bed by the closet? Is all yours." He leaned back in the chair, feigning interest in the newspaper spread open over the table. "Sam's gonna take the other, and me, I'll be keeping watch. Making sure no one comes in."

"Dean," Sam said, voice tinged with disapproval. But Dean figured the kid had seen enough to be scared anyway.

"You know there are bad things out there," he said, looking her in the eye. "Things that can hurt you. Sam and me, our job's to make the bad things go away."

Sam went into the bathroom and closed the door, and a few seconds later Dean heard the taps cut on. The kid didn't move, just sat ramrod-straight staring at her lap. Dean figured she was staying awake at this point through sheer force of will. Finally, she yawned, one hand creeping to cover her mouth, and Dean hid a smile behind the newspaper.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam came out scratching his head. With a soft sigh, the kid slid down from her chair and crossed the room. She reached up for one of Sam's freakishly long arms and squeezed his hand to make sure she had his attention. She walked over to the bed by the closet.

"You—do you want me to tuck you in?" Sam asked, genius that he was.

He followed her over to the bed and drew the blankets up over her, gave the mattress an awkward pat.

"Sleep tight, okay?" Sam said.

The kid rolled over a few times, like a puppy trying to get comfortable. Sam wandered back to the table and just stood there until Dean sighed and put down the newspaper he was pretending to read.

"I gotta tuck you in, now?"

"What are we doing, Dean?" he asked, voice low and worried.

"Getting some much-needed sleep, Sam."

"Yeah, and then what?"

"And then . . . we figure it out tomorrow. Or tonight. Christ, I know it's bad when I can't even figure out what day it is."

"We don't even know what the demon did to her. Why it took her in the first place. I mean, it's not a demon's usual MO to snatch a kid and play house for a year."

"I know that, Sam," he said with what he thought was infinite patience under the circumstances.

"Why didn't it just kill her when it killed her parents? Why keep her alive?"

Across the room, the kid turned on her side, as though she could will everything—Sam and Dean, this room, the whole fucked-up world—away.

"We'll figure it out, Sam. I promise. Now get some sleep, okay?"

He picked up the newspaper again and made himself focus on the words.

--

Dean woke with the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that he was being watched. He rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. The kid was sitting at the foot of the bed, legs hugged to her chest, Dean's favorite _Metallica_ shirt stretched all to hell over her knees.

"Hey," Dean said groggily. "Where's Sam?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Bathroom.

Dean sat up, rolling the kinks from his shoulder, which for the record still ached like a bitch. The kid was staring, brown eyes huge and thoughtful.

"So, hey," he began. "I realize you might not feel like talking right now. Believe me, I understand what that's like. Still, we gotta call you something, and I always liked the name Layla."

He didn't plan on saying that; it just sort of came out. Maybe it was that she reminded him of someone else, a pretty blond with old eyes. He wondered what happened to her before deciding he liked not knowing better.

The newly dubbed Layla chewed her bottom lip and watched him swig water from the bottle on the nightstand.

"You hungry?" he asked. "Once Sam finishes curling his eyelashes in there, I'll make a dinner run. How about pizza? I'll bet you like anchovies."

He hoped she'd make a face, giggle, blink even, but wasn't really surprised when she did none of the above. Shoving the blankets off, he got out of bed and went to sit at the table.

They both looked up when the bathroom door opened, and Sam emerged in a cloud of steam.

"Hi," Sam said, stooping to tuck his shaving kit back in his duffle. He hadn't dried his hair all the way, and the back collar of his shirt was soaked through.

"I think we should go see Bobby," Dean said without preamble. It hadn't been a difficult decision. They could spend the next two weeks researching in libraries and on the Internet and still not know all the stuff about demons and possession that Bobby knew from experience.

Sam straightened up again, and after a few seconds nodded, unsurprised.

"That's a good few hundred miles," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We'll leave after dinner."

--

In Chatanooga, Sam decided they needed to sleep a night in actual beds. Dean went through the McDonald's drive-through, ordering Big Macs and coffees for him and Sam, a Happy Meal and milk for the kid. Just in case, he got both the hamburger and the McNuggets.

At the hotel, Dean poured a thick line of salt in front of the windows and the door while Sam fumbled with the prize in Layla's Happy Meal.

"Do you want to take first watch or should I?" Sam asked, handing over what was apparently some kind of robot with big friendly-looking eyes.

"Things have been pretty quiet since we left Georgia. And we haven't noticed anybody following us, right?" He waited for Sam's nod of confirmation. "I'm thinkin' we could both use a full six, dude, what do you say?"

Sam paused, digging in his duffel for clean pajama pants.

"You want us to sleep in the same bed?"

"Unless you don't think you can keep your hands off me," Dean said, giving his best attempt at a cocky smirk. Usually he excelled at cocky—pun intended—but he was worn down from hours on the road and the stress of another human being to look after.

Dean brushed his teeth and used the bathroom while Sam got Layla settled in the other bed. Then he checked the locks on the windows and doors and made sure the salt lines were undisturbed before climbing into bed.

"G'night," Dean said, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow.

"Hey," Sam said, pushing up against his side. Dean could feel his breath, minty-cool on the back of Dean's neck. He shivered.

"Yeah?"

"You sure one of us shouldn't stay awake?" Sam pressed.

"It'll be fine. Go to sleep."

"Yeah, okay. G'night, Dean."

When Dean woke up again, the sheets on the other side of the bed were cold, and the room smelled like bacon-and-egg sandwiches and coffee. The water was running in the bathroom; Sam, bless his insomniac soul, must have gone out to grab breakfast before showering. Dean cracked a single eye against the way-too-fucking-bright, and considered joining Sam under the hot spray before he remembered that they had a seven year-old houseguest for the time being, and wow, did that suck out loud right now. Wait. Seven year old. Beams of sunlight striking his eyes like lasers, and yeah. Shit. The bed farthest from the door was empty, and the door wide open.

"Shit," he said, hand sliding automatically under his pillow, and then pain. Surprising amounts of pain.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed just as the shower cut off in the other room. Holding his right hand to his chest, he used the other to bang on the bathroom door.

"Layla's not in her bed. Go check the front desk. Oh yeah, and hurry up before I bleed to death."

Bleary-eyed he stumbled toward their duffels, started rifling for something to stop the bloodflow.

Sam's voice, muffled through the bathroom door.

"Dean? What happened are you okay?" The last was all in one breath.

"I'm fine," Dean ground out. "Just . . . got cut." He wrapped his hand in one of Sam's T-shirts—he hadn't worked out how yet but this was totally Sam's fault—and groaned as the new pressure made the pain about a million times worse.

"What? How?" Sam demanded. The door to the bathroom burst open, and Sam emerged with his jeans unbuttoned and his shirt stuck around his neck.

"Go," he managed, sticking his head around the corner. "Find the kid, I'm fine."

On his way out the door, Sam's foot snapped Layla's Happy Meal toy in two.

--

"Not that bad?" Sam said. "You're a frikkin' idiot, Dean, you know that?" One hand on the wheel, he used the other to reach over and check the pressure on Dean's wound.

"Thanks for the heads up," Dean said. He tried to concentrate on the throbbing pain because it was more fun than the conversation.

Sam gave the wheel a vicious jerk before slamming the breaks of the Impala outside the big double doors marked Emergency Room.

"Dude, chill," Dean said. "And watch my car." He twisted in the seat as much as he dared and offered Layla what he hoped was a reassuring, I'm-not-gonna-bleed-to-death smile.

Sam had found her sitting perfectly calm out by the pool.

"How's it goin' back there?" he asked, hoped Sam would take the hint and shut up. He didn't.

"How many times have I warned you about sleeping with an unsheathed knife under your pillow?"

Dean crinkled up his forehead, considering.

"None, actually."

Sam opened his mouth, closed it again.

"That's because I didn't think you were clumsy enough to cut your freakin' hand open, Dean!"

"Yeah, well. Live and learn." He cradled his bleeding hand to his chest and used the other to open the car door. "You're not leavin' my baby here to get towed. Go park, I'll meet you inside."

Ten minutes later, and Dean was idling in an exam room while Sammy paced trenches into the floor.

"Sit down, will ya? You're making me queasy." It was either Sam's pacing or the nurse preparing to stick a huge-ass syringe in his hand, he wasn't sure.

"You could have bled to death," Sam said.

"Ix-nay on the eath-day," Dean replied, jerking his head in the direction of Layla, who was seated on a folding chair in the far corner. "Anyway, this is totally your fault."

"What? Why?"

"You're the one who went out to get food. What have I told you about doing something nice, huh?"

The nurse was doing her best to ignore their little family spat, which Dean completely appreciated. He tried to smile charmingly, wasn't sure if his face cooperated.

"That makes no sense!" Sam was still going. "And for the record, she was still sleeping when I got back from the convenience store with breakfast, so—"

"Ohhh, God," Dean groaned as the needle slid into flesh.

Sam paused in his tirade.

"You okay, man?" he asked, all concern now.

"Uck-fay," Dean muttered, closing his eyes.

Beside him, Sam cringed and gave Dean's shoulder a brief squeeze.

"I'm gonna go, uh, fill out the paperwork," Sam said, ducking out the door.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried to relax.

"Is that your daughter?" the nurse asked. She was thirtyish and pretty and reminded Dean a little of the nurse who took care of Sammy when he had his tonsils out. He wondered if she too would give Dean lime Jello and a hug out in the corridor.

"Uh, no. Nope. M'brother's actually. I'm way too young to have a kid her age."

The nurse smiled sweetly before jabbing him with the needle again. Dean wondered seriously if he was going to pass out.

Dad and Sam had stitched him up dozens of times, often without any anesthetic save a bottle of Jack, and he'd scarcely batted an eye. Well, okay, so it had hurt like hell. But he never felt like last night's dinner was going to make an appearance. It had to be the hospital. He hated these places—like goddamn death houses. Too bright and white and sterile.

He never seemed to leave one with everything he came in with.

The nurse was frowning, resting a free hand on his shoulder.

"Are you feeling alright, Mr . . .?"

What was the last name on the insurance card this month? Dean couldn't remember. He watched the slow pull of the needle and thread, the tug as his flesh came back together.

"Dean. Call me Dean . . . sweetheart." He swallowed hard, really preferring not to puke all over a hot girl.

Across the room, Layla slid out of her chair.

"Hey," Dean said, sitting up. "Hey, where you—"

And then she was taking his good hand, her small fingers curling around his, squeezing. Holding on.

"Don't run away again," Dean murmured.

She held his hand while the nurse finished stitching him.

--

Back in the car, Dean dry-swallowed three pills and slumped down in the passenger seat.

"Wake me up when . . . yeah, on second thought, don't."

Sam snorted and turned over the engine. Dean closed his eyes, smiling as his baby rumbled to life. He waited for her soothing motion to drag him off to dreamland.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes slowly and turned his head. Layla was perched on the edge of the back seat, dark eyes serious.

Dean glanced at Sam, who widened his eyes and shrugged but did nothing remotely useful. Dean coughed and turned to face the girl more fully.

"My name's not really Layla." She shrugged, as though she were sorry to have to tell him that.

"Yeah, I know that," he said. "It's from a song. Clapton. He's amazing. You should hear—"

"—but you can call me Layla. I don't mind." She hesitated and scooted backwards, chewing a line into her lower lip. "I don't really remember what they called me before."

--

At a rest stop in Macon, Dean gassed up the car and dialed Bobby's number.

"Anything?" he asked, and the pause told him everything he needed to know.

"Wish I had better news for you boys," Bobby sighed. "But it's damn uncommon for demons to hold human children for any significant amount of time. They usually have pretty specific purposes in mind. Rituals, human sacrifice, feeding . . . otherwise, they tend to just kill folks outright."

Dean cut a hand across his face to block the sun and squinted out over the parking lot. Sam was walking back from the rest station, arms full of hot dogs and chips and cans of soda. Layla trailed behind, eating a hot dog like a slice of watermelon, taking small bites from the middle.

"Her parents were hunters, right?" Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean replaced the pump and printed his receipt, which would wind up crumpled in the backseat with all the others. "Maybe it was, like, a revenge gig."

Bobby snorted.

"Revenge would be killing the girl and letting her parents find the body. That was always your dad's biggest fear."

And it wasn't really funny but Dean almost laughed anyway because, as a kid, his biggest fear had been that one day Dad just wouldn't come back from a hunting trip and they'd never find a body. Never know one way or the other, and that had to be worse, right?

Sam held open the backdoor, eyeing Dean across the roof while Layla climbed inside. She had a blob of mustard on her chin. Turning his back, Dean dropped his voice to a low murmur.

"What was that, Bobby?"

"I asked if she's been doing anything weird."

"She's a seven-year old girl. Everything she does is weird." And then, because he sensed Bobby was losing patience he added hastily, "But if you mean like Exorcist-weird, no. No levitating or vomiting black smoke. She hasn't wandered off since that day at the motel."

"Listen, Dean. We don't know diddly-squat about this girl yet, and it could be a while before we do."

"What are you saying, Bobby?"

"I'm saying, you and Sam should get here as soon as physically possible. And for God's sake, be careful."

Dean hung up and got back in the car.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked, handing him a hot dog.

Dean shoved half of it in his mouth and flashed Layla a smile in the rearview.

"Sure," he said, mouth full of dog, and started the car.

--

Dean had one mother of a migraine. His head throbbed in time with the windshield wipers slicking over the windshield, and he was pretty sure that the next son of a bitch that left his high beams on was going to wind up with a face full of buckshot.

It had been raining since Lynchberg. Layla had spent at least seven of the last eight hours talking to Sam, and, apparently, the kid could talk like a champ when the subject wasn't 1) her parents or 2) what happened to her the past year.

"Can we play the picnic game?" she asked, inching forward on the bench seat.

"Again?" Sam asked with amusement, and Dean groaned, tried to smother it with a yawn.

The sign ahead promised lodging at the next exit. Dean gave Sam a significant nudge, and Sam guided them into the right-hand lane. Dean wanted a cup of coffee, a bed and six hours uninterrupted.

"I'm going on a picnic, and I'm gonna bring an aardvark," Layla announced. "Your turn, Sam."

"Sammy, I'm begging you," Dean murmured, slanting his eyes closed.

"Hey, Layla, maybe we should take a break," Sam suggested.

"Okay," Layla said, but she sounded sort of disappointed.

Dean sighed and dug around in the glove compartment till he found his shades. He pushed them up over his nose, and turned his head even though the motion made him feel like his brain would seep out of his nose.

"I'm going on a picnic, and I'm bringing an aardvark and a baboon," he said, and was ridiculously pleased when the kid beamed at him.

"You hungry?" Dean asked her. "We'll stop somewhere for food."

"It's two in the morning," Sam said. "Everything's closed."

They went to McDonalds again. The lights on the second golden arch were out, and Layla asked for chocolate milk with her Happy Meal. Sam ducked a glance at Dean, who shrugged.

"Sure," Sam told her.

--

She had a nightmare in Liberty.

Dean heard her screaming and thrashing in bed and was up and at her side before Sam was fully awake. This was an old role. Familiar as breathing. Or fighting.

He put a hand on her shoulder and shook, reaching over with his other hand to switch on the lamp. She started awake, met Dean's eyes and burst into tears.

"Not really the effect I go for with women," he quipped.

He could feel Sam at his elbow, and he straightened, intending to give Sam room for swooping in and comforting. Layla still insisted that Sam tuck her into bed every night. Not that Dean cared. It wasn't like he was jealous or something.

Before he could step back, Layla had reached out and grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, tugging him down beside her. She crawled into Dean's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her damp face in the crook of his neck.

"Hey," he said. And then, because he couldn't think of anything else, he said it again: "Hey. It was just a dream, okay?"

He heard the sound of a throat clearing and looked up to see Sam blinking down at him, scratching his mop of hair like he was trying to extract answers. Finally he just turned around and went back to their bed. Dean sighed and rested a hand on Layla's back. She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.

"That looked pretty bad. Any chance you wanna tell me about it?"

She said nothing, just molded herself against him and yeah, he hadn't thought so, but it was worth a try.

Sam never wanted to talk about what was bothering him either, would pull faces and act all bitchy if Dean pressed the issue. And okay, there was usually less snuggling with Sam, but this was hardly unfamiliar territory for Dean. He stroked her hair for ten minutes until she fell back to sleep. Then he eased her into bed and drew the blanket up to her chin.

Sam was still awake when Dean slid back into bed.

"She okay?"

"It's the Bible Belt," Dean said, shuddering. "Gives me nightmares, too."

Sam didn't laugh.

"I didn't even hear her. I slept right through it."

"That's 'cause you were snoring so loud," Dean said, adjusting his pillow.

"Do you have to make everything into a joke? Can't you be serious for a minute?"

"Your face is a joke," Dean said.

Sam gave him a look that said, _you're so freaking immature_, before rolling over.

Well, fuck.

"Sam." Dean cleared his throat and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, what's wrong, man?"

Sam said nothing, and Dean gritted his teeth. He could tolerate bitching and moaning, pouting even, but the silent treatment drove him nuts.

"What's your problem?" he hissed. "What, you pissed 'cuz she didn't go running to you for once? Don't worry, Sammy. I'm sure she'll still ask you to pour her milk in the morning."

"Screw you, Dean."

"No, thanks, I'm not in the mood."

Sam flopped over on his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Dean did the same.

--

"Where are we going?" Layla asked the next morning as Dean turned onto the interstate. Her words were muffled, mouth full of cinnamon-raisin bagel.

"We're going to see our friend, Bobby," Sam said. "You'll like him. He's . . . nice."

Sam looked at Dean and shrugged. Dean grinned back, pleased that Sam seemed to have gotten over the previous night's bitchfest.

"Bela's nice," Layla said. "Will she be there?"

"Bela's an evil bitch," Dean said, just so there wouldn't be any confusion on that point.

"Dean," Sam said, and gave Dean a _look_.

Dean angled his head to meet Layla's gaze in the rearview.

"Witch. She's an evil, conniving, lying witch-whore."

He raised his eyebrows at Sam. Better?

Apparently, Sam didn't think so because he rolled his eyes and slumped down in the seat, folding his arms across his chest.

"She oughta eat something healthy," he said sulkily. "Like with fruit maybe."

"The bagel has raisins," Dean pointed out.

Sam dug around in the glove compartment and came up with Dean's sunglasses. He flipped them down over his eyes.

"Wake me when it's my turn to drive," he muttered.

"Whatever, dude," Dean said. "Me and Layla are gonna rock out."

It occurred to Dean that this was the first time Layla had shown any interest in their destination. He decided to take that as a good sign.

"Dean?" Layla said, and he had to turn down AC/DC to hear her properly. "Can I have a knife to put under my pillow?"

Beside him, Sam was clenching his jaw.

--

Dean guided the car over Bobby's gravelly drive and Sam immediately jerked awake.

"How do you always do that?" Dean asked, taking the keys from the ignition. He reached out to swipe at the drool spot on Sam's chin, laughing when Sam thanked him with an elbow to the stomach.

It was just after sundown, and the western horizon looked like a kindergartener had painted it with broad stripes of color. Dean rounded the car, pausing to peer into the backseat. Layla was curled almost fetal, her head resting in the center of Sam's duffel, Dean's leather jacket draped over her like a blanket.

It was a brisk night, the air sweet and ripe with possibility. It was the sort of night that usually inspired Dean to go out in search of a few beers and a pool game, maybe a cute girl who was willing; who wouldn't make a fuss when he drove out of town a few days later.

If Dean weren't totally numb-brained with exhaustion, he might have dropped Sam and the kid and peeled out again in a cloud of dust. "Don't wait up," he'd have yelled over the hot heavy pulse of the music blaring and the adrenaline of an entirely different kind of hunt. Instead he shouldered both his and Sam's bags and slammed the trunk.

They met Bobby on the porch, Cheney scratching at the screen to make his presence known. Layla lifted her head.

"He's got a puppy," she said from the circle of Sam's arms, her head already dropping onto his shoulder again. "Cool."

She closed her eyes.

"Boys," Bobby greeted them.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said.

Dean held out a hand, which Bobby clasped and gave a brisk squeeze before releasing.

"Hey, Bobby," he greeted, wondering vaguely if, after all they'd been through they ought to hug hello or something. Then he wondered when he'd turned into Sam.

"You boys look like Hell on a cracker." Bobby held open the door, stretching out one booted foot to hold Cheney back. "Get some rest, we'll talk in the morning."

While Sam showed Layla to the bathroom, ushered her inside with instructions to brush her teeth, Dean made up the couch, using the sheets he and Sammy used to sleep on when they stayed here a hundred years ago. Pound Puppies and Charlie Brown.

She was still half asleep when Sam tucked her into bed, pulled the topsheet back to slide her inside.

"G'night, Layla," Sam said, smoothing her hair with the side of his hand.

" 'Night, Sam," she murmured, burrowing into the couch cushions. "Wait!"

She opened her eyes, squinting into the darkness.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, right here," he said, stepping forward so she could see him in the sinking sunlight that flickered inside between Bobby's blinds.

She held out her arms expectantly, and it took Dean several seconds to realize what she wanted. She smelled like the bubblegum-flavored toothpaste they bought her from 7-Eleven, and baby powder, though Dean had no idea where that particular scent came from.

After all she'd been through, how was it she still remembered hugs goodnight?

Nodding to Bobby who was sharpening his knives at the kitchen table, Dean headed for the back bedroom, Sam trailing behind him.

The twin beds were made up with clean sheets and blankets. Dean dropped his bag on the bed and started stripping right there. When he turned around, Sam was watching him get undressed.

"What, you want me to go slower?"

Sam kept right on staring at Dean, eyes sort of soft like he might at any moment cross the space between them and give him a freaking hug or something.

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean said. "Bobby's just down the hall, Sam. Not to mention the kid asleep on the couch out there . . . no friggin' way."

Sam looked offended and then plain pissed.

"God, Dean, is that all you think about? I don't wanna have sex, okay, I just . . . wannasleeptogether." The last came out all rushed, crammed into a single breath, but Dean got the drift.

"Sam," he protested, too tired even to make fun of Sam for being such a girl. "These beds are hardly wide enough for one of us, dude. I really don't need your bony elbows bashing me in the face all night."

Sam mumbled something, and this time Dean did have to ask him to repeat himself.

"We could push the beds together," Sam repeated. "We did when we were little sometimes. When Dad left us here. Remember?"

Dean did. He remembered Dad gunning the Impala up Bobby's gravelly drive, turning to Dean in the rearview as he let the engine idle. _Help your brother inside_, John would say, mind already ten miles down the road. Already focused on the hunt. And Dean would be the one to shake Sammy awake and tug him sleepy-eyed and rubber-limbed out of the car, shouldering both their bags as they marched up the drive to the porch where Bobby stood waiting for them.

Dean sighed, mostly because he could feel himself caving. He had gotten sort of used to sharing a bed with Sam, falling asleep to the deep even sound of his breathing and waking with their faces close, Sam's slightly sour breath puffing against his mouth. It wasn't all bad. There were perks.

The guy gave off heat like a freaking radiator.

Sam was watching him, one big hand sliding under his t-shirt to scratch an itch on his midsection.

"Lock the door," Dean said with a sigh.

He moved the beds around while Sam got undressed. When he slipped under the covers he half-expected Sam's arm to go around him, was prepared to put up a lackluster display of masculine protest. He was surprised when Sam merely scooted a little closer and moved his hand so it brushed the back of Dean's on top of the covers.

"Goodnight, Dean," he said.

Dean grunted a reply and closed his eyes.

--

He woke at dawn, hardly a surprise since they went to bed before dinner. Sam was still unconscious so Dean tugged on sweatpants and one of his hoodies, worn soft and threadbare, and went for a run. Outside, the sun was just beginning to tint the sky from black to dark-blue. Dean's breath left cottony puffs in the air as his feet beat a reassuring pattern into the dirt.

He ran until he was winded, then ran until he caught a second one, not slowing until his blood was pumping and his muscles singing in that good way that meant he was still alive. When he got back to the house, Sam was sitting on the porch in his pajama pants and a brown sweater that Dean knew was torn in the underarm, drinking coffee from a chipped yellow mug.

"Hey," Sam said easily.

Dean felt awesome, pulse thrumming under his skin.

"Have you showered yet?" Dean replied, pausing a moment to stretch out his calves on the porch step.

"Not yet." Sam raised a brow, took a sip of coffee.

"Good."

Dean curled his fingers in the fabric of Sam's sweater and yanked, snorting as Sam tried to set down his coffee without spilling.

Dean dragged Sam around the side of the house and shoved him up against the wall.

Sam huffed out a sound, halfway between laughter and annoyance.

"Jesus, what's your—?"

Hurry? Problem? Childhood trauma that makes you understand the word _fraternize_ in entirely new ways? Dean never got to hear the end, because the words dried up on Sam's lips as Dean leaned close to his face and waited for Sam to meet him halfway. This thing between them—_incest, Dean, you should be able to say it_—only worked if they were partners. Equals. Sam had to want it too, or else—

Sam's lips were rough, a little bit chapped and still warm from the coffee when they crashed down on his. It was more attacking than kissing—all teeth and tongue.

"You bit me," Dean said, poking out his tongue to taste the drop of blood.

Sam grinned and sucked Dean's tongue into his mouth, drawing it into a tight little funnel that had Dean humping Sam's thigh like he was a frustrated teenager again.

"Who the hell taught you to kiss like that?" Dean demanded, pulling away from Sam's mouth and dropping his lips to Sam's throat.

"Georgia Paulson," Sam said, arms going around Dean's waist to tug him closer.

Sam freaking loved having his neck sucked. Almost as much as other things.

"Who's that? Girl from the Cape?"

"Nuh," Sam said, or else something equally articulate.

His hands managed to gain purchase in Dean's sweatshirt and he swung him around, reversing their positions. He jutted a knee between Dean's legs, bending his neck to slurp Dean's earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth.

"I'm gonna look her up," Dean said, shivering violently as Sam blew hot air into his ear canal. "Gonna send her flowers or something."

"You do that."

Sam's hands were scrabbling under his sweatshirt, sliding warm and firm around his belly, and Dean reluctantly thrust an arm between them. He gave Sam a gentle shove mitigated by a smile of apology.

"We can't, dude. Bobby . . . "

Sam looked for a second like he might protest. Then he sighed and took a step back, thrusting a hand through his mop of hair.

"Yeah. You're right. It's just . . . dude."

"Yeah, I know."

In the entryway, Sam hip-checked Dean and scrambled past him, claiming first shower as he jogged toward the bathroom on his giant's legs.

"Bitch," Dean called without much heat and headed for the kitchen.

Bobby was at the kitchen counter squinting at the coffee maker.

"That almost ready?" Dean asked, pulling out a chair at the table.

Bobby shot him a look.

"I mean, thanks," Dean coughed. "For having us."

"Don't thank me yet," Bobby said. He eyed the steady drip drip drip of the percolator. "I found a spell last night. You're not gonna like it though."

"What else is new?" Dean said.

--

"First thing's first," Bobby said, peering into the kitchen where Layla was seated at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast. "We gotta determine she ain't possessed before all manner of hell starts breaking loose."

He crossed to one of the piles of books and printouts covering the floor and started to rummage through the contents.

"We already did that," Sam said from the sofa. "Dean doused her with holy water back at the hotel."

Bobby paused long enough to raise his head and arch a meaningful brow at Sam.

"Remember how well that worked when Yellow Eyes got a hold of your dad?"

Dean did, and one glance at Sam confirmed that he wasn't forgetting any time soon either.

"Okay," Dean said, and Sam nodded. "What do we have to do?"

--

It went about as well as Dean expected, which meant really frigging badly. They didn't do anything to hurt her, at least not physically. But they might as well have. After what she'd been through the past year—and Dean could only guess—tying her to a chair and painting symbols on her face and forehead while Bobby recited Latin must have seemed like the cruelest sort of betrayal, worse still because they'd acted like she could trust them.

"She's not gonna understand," Dean had protested before they began. "Can't we drug her or something? Knock her out?"

"We need her awake," Bobby had said, shrugging, and that was as close to an apology as Dean was going to get.

It wasn't Bobby's fault. He was just trying to help; they all were, which didn't make Dean feel like any less of a bastard.

After, he helped Bobby clean up, mopping paint and holy water off the floor, while Sam tried to coax Layla out of the bathroom. She'd shut herself in there, locking the door behind her, almost as soon as Sam finished untying her. Dean could hear her talking to herself, voice stripped raw from screaming, soft and high and childish. He'd preferred the screaming, actually. It was worse when she gave up and started to cry, those big brown eyes so full of hurt.

All that, and they didn't know a damn thing more than they had when they started.

"Fuck," Dean said, kicking at a stack of books and earning a glare from Bobby. "Sorry."

Bobby nodded.

"I'm gonna make a few calls," he said. On his way upstairs, he gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "I'll be upstairs if you boys need anything."

When he was gone, Sam crossed the room and slumped into a ratty armchair with a high sloping back.

"Well, that was about as much fun as calculus," he said.

Dean held the mop over the bucket, squeezing out the excess water.

"You loved calculus," Dean reminded him.

He left the mop standing in the corner, crossed to Bobby's desk and pulled out the chair, straddling it backwards.

"No I didn't," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "You always thought I liked every subject just because I liked school in general."

"Well, yeah. You were a nerd."

Sam screwed up his face like he was going to argue. Then he stopped, smiled a little.

"Were?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom door, his smile fading.

"No luck?" he asked.

"Is she out of the bathroom?" Sam shot back.

Dean arched a brow and tilted back in his chair.

"No need to get snippy, Sammy. I was just asking."

"Feel free to try for yourself," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. "What's up with you dude?"

"What? Nothing's up with me." And then because Sam could never leave well enough alone—couldn't resist dropping well enough in a bowl and poking it—added, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've gone all silent partner on me lately. You haven't been this quiet since you were nine and had your tonsils out." Dean smirked, staring off. "Huh, you had the hottest nurse, man. Her name was Anna or maybe Hannah. I dunno. But she had these dark blond curls, and the way she looked in scrubs . . ."

Dean had been thirteen and sliding into puberty like oil through an engine—all slow, easy heat. Sam was the opposite, waking up one morning with a tent in his boxers and chin acne.

"Are you asking for my opinion on something, Dean?" Sam crossed his ankles and grinned.

"Not exactly—"

"Because that would be a first."

"--just used to you volunteering it," Dean amended. "And that's bullshit, dude. We're partners now. Have been for a while. Haven't we?"

Sam sighed.

"It's no big deal, Dean. I just figure, of the two of us, you're the one with experience raising a kid."

That was enough to have Dean losing his balance, chair crashing down on all four legs. Dean winced and stood up before he broke all of Bobby's furniture.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold up there, Sammy. Dad raised us."

"Yeah," Sam said slumping down even farther if possible. "Sure."

Jesus, he could be a sarcastic little shit when he wanted.

"Maybe he wasn't around all the time," Dean acknowledged.

"All the time? Try any of the time. He was away more than he was home—"

Dean folded his arms over his chest.

"That's an exaggeration, Sam—"

"And when he was home, he wasn't exactly what you'd call an active parent."

"Active parent?" Dean scoffed. "You learn that one at Stanford, Sam? In Psychology for Whiny Bitches Who Think The World Is Just a Cold, Cruel Place? The man's dead, for God's sake. Show some respect."

"Hey," Sam said, getting to his feet now. He held up a hand in a gesture of peace. "I'm not trying to dump on Dad. I know he loved us, that he did what he thought was best."

"Damn right he did."

"But he was also a hard, obsessive bastard with a stubborn streak a mile wide."

Yeah, Dean thought. Good thing he didn't pass that on to either of his sons.

"And in case you didn't notice," Sam said, on a roll now, "he wasn't the one there when I got home from school. He wasn't the one to cook dinner every night or make sure I had money for lunch or yell at me to go to bed at a decent hour."

"Sam," Dean started and then stopped, unsure how to continue. His throat felt tight, like he'd dry-swallowed a handful of pills, and he wanted out of this conversation five minutes ago.

"He wasn't they one who sat with me when I had bad dreams. And, in high school, it sure as hell wasn't Dad I talked to about girls or kissing or sex—"

"No sense in talking about it when you ain't doing it, right, Sammy?"

Dean grinned, quick and deliberate, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean, Dean."

"Hey, something I've been wondering," Dean said, picking at a speck of paint under his thumbnail. "Was Jessica the first?"

He didn't need to look up to know Sam's ears would be bright red.

"That's none of your business," Sam shot back.

"Was she gentle?"

"You're an asshole, Dean."

--

Sam took the Impala into town and came back with rotisserie chicken and mac and cheese, along with a salad to satisfy his own abnormal urges. He spread the food out on the table and announced that dinner was ready.

"You're gonna make some woman a fine wife one day," Dean said, slapping Sam once on the chest.

Bobby ate a drumstick and shook his head at the both of them.

After dinner, Dean took his beer out to the porch, sort of relieved when Sam grabbed a book and made for the couch. He really wasn't eager to follow up that afternoon's conversation with a heartfelt moment. One angst-fest per day was about all he could handle.

Anyway, Sam was overreacting, as usual. Dean was the big brother: the one charged with looking out for Sammy. He hadn't done anything above and beyond, nothing outside his realm of responsibility, and, okay, even he wasn't buying that. It might have been more salable if he didn't know the taste of the soft skin behind Sam's ear. Or the way Sam's eyes flickered and darkened when Dean—

Stopping that line of thinking seemed smart. It was twilight, stars starting to pop along the horizon as the temperature dropped. Dean shivered and flipped up the collar on his button-down.

It was some kind of irony, he figured, that most people didn't think about Hell until they'd committed some sin grievous enough to gain them entrance. Dean had been keeping a tally for years. Like that sitcom where Jason Lee finds all the people he screwed and tries to make it right. Except this wasn't a sitcom, and Dean knew in the final count he'd always come up short.

He had thought for a while that Sam might be safe—that he and John could somehow save Sam from a one-way trip down south. Those fantasies died at a crossroads in South Dakota, Dean lying on the ground and burning in fires he couldn't yet see, blinking blood from his eyes as he watched his brother's brown ones go black.

Somehow, screwing each other seemed less damning after that.

"You plannin' on sleeping out here?' a gruff voice asked.

Bobby.

"Just enjoying the evening," Dean said, shaking guilty images from his head as Bobby stepped onto the porch. "What's goin' on?"

"Just wondering if you and Sam had given any thought to what you're gonna do now." He lowered himself to the porch rail. "Where you're gonna go."

"You want us to take off?" Dean said, really hoping that didn't sound as pathetic as it had in his head.

"I'm not kicking you out. Christ. You're welcome to stay as long as you want." Bobby hesitated, hand hovering in the air a few seconds before it clamped warm and solid on Dean's shoulder. "Dumbass."

Dean snorted and stared out into the dark again.

"I've got a friend working down at the police station," Bobby said. "She's a nice lady, and she wouldn't ask too many questions. She'd make sure the girl ended up someplace safe."

"No." Off Bobby's look, he cleared his throat. "Not until we know for sure she's not a threat. We can't risk her hurting anybody, Bobby." It was almost true, even.

"Don't know how you're gonna make sure of that. No way of knowing what the demon wanted with her, or what they may have done. Not unless you resurrect the bitch and ask her anyway."

"What about her family?" Sam said, and Dean looked up in time to see his long form stepping out onto the porch. "Is there anybody looking for her, Bobby? Someone who might be willing to take her in if—when we're sure it's safe."

"Rick and Maddy were hunters, Sam. Why d'ya think people become hunters in the first place?"

"The kick-ass dental plan?" Dean said. "Okay, so no family."

"Just what's resting in a cemetery outside Boston."

"You knew them," Sam said suddenly, cocking his hip to lean against the porch rail. "The Omeras."

Bobby shrugged.

"About as well as I knew any hunters, except your dad."

"What were they like?" Sam asked, carefully ignoring that. "The Omeras."

"Smart," Bobby said. "Her especially. Young and determined as all-hell. Cold, hard hunters. And damned good at it."

"Not good enough," Dean said, and Bobby shrugged again.

"Things changed when Maddy had that kid. She said she wanted out and Rick, he went along with it. He was head over bootheels for that woman. Never seen a man so gaga over anyone except maybe . . . " He coughed and thankfully didn't finish that sentence. "Anyway, they went to the goddamn suburbs or something. Tried to live like real people, and even succeeded. For a while."

"So they weren't hunting anymore when the demon came after them?"

"Not since the kid was around three." Bobby cleared his throat. "Ryan. That's what they called her."

--

It took them all of the next morning and half the afternoon to coax Layla out of the bathroom. They took turns sitting by the door and talking to her. Dean told stories about the stupid things Sam had done when they were kids. When he ran out of stories about Sam, he started telling her some of the dumb stuff he'd done, substituting Sam's name for his. And when he couldn't think of any more stories, he told her the plots from TV shows—_I Love Lucy, Happy Days_. When he got to _Beverly Hills 90210_, Sam said maybe he should choose alternate source material. Dean just shrugged, started to sing.

Motorhead. Metallica.

"My God," Sam said, shaking his head. "You know, like, every single word."

"Shut up."

Wisely, Bobby stayed clear of their efforts, working most of the day up in his room. Dean was pretty sure Layla was never going to forgive Bobby.

It was almost dinnertime when Layla finally unlocked the door and opened it enough to poke her head through the crack. Sam was in the middle of a detailed description of somebody's—not theirs definitely, maybe Jessica's family's—Christmas tradition which involved, Christ, board games. At Bobby's desk, Dean looked up from the credit card forms he was dutifully filling out.

Layla stood in the doorway, clothes wrinkled, brown eyes huge. She had red paint in her hair which, from a distance, looked disturbingly like blood.

"Hi," Sam said, staring at Layla like if the next words out of her mouth were 'I want my own unicorn' he would probably try to make it happen.

"Don't," Layla said, fingers still tight around the doorknob, "don't do that again."

Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

"We won't," Sam said. "I promise," and Dean wondered when it was that Sam got to be the better liar.

Layla nodded, apparently satisfied.

Sam gave him a look—_what now?_ Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the kid.

"You like bubble baths?" he said, rising.

He crossed the room and held out his hand. When she slid hers inside, he felt like thanking some higher power.

While the tub filled and Sam reheated last night's chicken, Dean lifted Layla onto the vanity and used his fingers to comb some of the dried paint from her hair.

"Ouch," she said, and he winced and tried to be gentler.

"Sorry. Almost done."

He ran his fingers through her hair, and it was soft and wispy like he remembered Sam's being at that age. He recalled how she had looked the first time he saw her, crouching in a dark corner of a basement, her hair dirty and dank from the pipes dripping overhead, and had a sudden urge to protect her, keep her safe.

"Layla," he said. "You remember when Sam and I found you? At the house in Georgia?"

Her eyes went even darker, the amber and gold specks receding till they were a solid brown, and she shrugged narrow shoulders.

"Can I have dinner soon?"

"Sam's working on it. You were in the basement, remember? What were you doing down there? Did you run away from it? From the demon?" he added softly.

"No." Her voice was scarcely a whisper and he had to strain to hear.

"What were you doing? You can tell me."

"I was hiding." She mumbled the words at her lap. "She told me to."

"Layla." He waited until she lifted her chin. "Who were you hiding from?"

"From you. You and Sam." She bit her lip. "She told me you were coming and said to hide."

He checked the bath temperature and made sure she had clean clothes to change into before closing the door and going to the kitchen to help Sam.

Twenty minutes later she wandered into the kitchen carrying a hairbrush.

"Do you know how to braid?" she asked the room at large.

Dean raised a brow.

"Sammy, if you can braid hair, I swear to God . . ."

"I think I can manage a ponytail," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

He beckoned Layla closer and got to work brushing her hair. The end result wasn't bad, if a little lopsided.

"Thanks," Layla said after, beaming up at Sam.

"You're welcome."

Dean wondered if he should have asked one of the (not man-whore high but still totally respectable number of) women he'd slept with to teach him how to make a braid.

Layla was digging into her mac and cheese like she hadn't eaten in days.

"Hey, Sam," she asked. "Is it almost Christmas?"

--

He had a dream that night.

It was a year or so after the fire that killed his mother, and they were renting some shit-hole apartment, having long since moved out of the big house. ("Just think it's time for a change, Dean-o," was what Dad said, but Dean knew better, knew Dad thought the house was just too lonely without Mom.) Dean had refused to eat dinner because Dad made the scrambled eggs too runny, so Dad told Dean, if he didn't like it, he could make himself a bowl of cereal. And Dean said all the cereal was gone, so Dad told him to go play in his room.

Dean had been playing with his action figures (not dolls) for what seemed like a really long time when the doorbell rang. He went into the living room to see who it was and found his dad talking to a woman. She was soft and grandmotherly with curling grayish hair and little glasses that sat on the end of her nose. She smelled like church and cats.

The woman smiled at Dean and asked how old he was and if he was looking forward to starting school—almost six and no. Then she said wasn't Sammy adorable and gave them both a lollypop, grape Dum Dums taken from her gigantic shoulder bag, and said she'd like to talk to their dad alone if that was all right.

Though he was only almost-six Dean wasn't stupid. He took Sammy into the bedroom and gave him his best GI Joe to play with while he listened at the door. When she was gone, Dean went into the kitchen and found his father sitting at the table, head in his hands.

"Please don't leave us with that lady," Dean said. "She smells like cats."

John looked up, and Dean was surprised to see that his father's face was wet.

"Dean," John said, reaching out a hand to stroke blindly at Dean's hair.

"I'll be good, Dad. I'll help with Sammy. I'll keep my room really clean. I'll go to school and I won't bitch about it. I'll be so, so good, I promise."

John looked at him for a long time—it felt like hours but was probably just a couple minutes. Finally, he curled an arm around Dean's waist and pulled him onto his lap, tucked his chin down into the curve of Dean's neck and held on tight. In the other room, Sammy started to whine for someone to come get him. Neither of them moved.

"I won't ever leave you, Dean. I swear."

"You said not to swear," Dean had murmured, a little embarrassed by the hugging, though not so much that he wanted his father to let go.

"It's okay to swear when it's a promise. I promise I'm not gonna leave you with anyone, Dean, especially not someone who smells like cats."

"Sammy, either?"

"Sammy, either."

Dean woke to find a fully-grown Sammy bending over him, one hand shaking his shoulder.

"Gah, what?" he demanded, throwing off Sam's huge paw.

Sam backed off and sat down on his own bed. The sun was peeking in through the blinds, and Dean could see the sleep lines on Sam's face, the scars painting a story in stark white over the brown of Sam's chest.

"You were . . . nothing," Sam said. "Forget it."

Dean swiped at his face, surprised when his hand came away damp. He was sweating. It must be warmer in here than he thought. He peeled his t-shirt over his head and started poking in his duffel for a clean one.

"I'm gonna call Sarah," Sam said. "Ask if she'd mind putting us up a couple weeks."

"Auction House Sarah?" At Sam's nod, Dean let out a low whistle, recalling dark hair and pale skin that was even whiter against Sam's hands. "I didn't know you two kept in touch."

"Well," Sam said, "We have," and Dean whistled again.

"You think that's a good idea, Sam? Taking Layla there? With all we don't know?"

"Actually, I do. New York isn't that far from Maine where the Omeras lived. We could drive up and check out the house. Maybe learn something about them, or the demon who killed them. And I think Sarah'd be great with Layla."

"No argument there," Dean said, standing to tug up his jeans. "I bet she'd be great with you, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that, if you fuck her, it might relieve some of that tension you've been carrying around like a fifty-pound weight."

He knew that would earn him a punch in the jaw, wasn't surprised when Sam snagged a handful of his shirt, arm drawing back. He was a little surprised when Sam released him, his arm falling limply to his side.

"Grow up, Dean," he sneered in that way he had of making Dean feel like the younger brother before pulling out his phone.

"Whatever, dude," was Dean's mature response before stalking away. He lingered in the hallway long enough to hear Sam's greeting.

"Sarah? Hey. It's Sam Win—" He could practically see Sam's face break into a smile, all soft eyes and dimples. "Yeah, it's good hearing your voice, too."

--

"Where are we going?" Layla asked while Dean was loading the car.

Sam pointed out New York State on the map and showed Layla the route they'd followed to get to Bobby's, and the one they would take heading east.

"Do you and Dean drive back and forth all the time?" she asked finally.

"Sort of," Sam said, and he flashed Dean a sideways smile which Dean took to mean they were on speaking terms again, halle-fucking-lujah.

Bobby came out onto the porch while Dean was stowing the last of the bags. He hefted the one with the clothes they'd bought for her—jeans and t-shirts from Wal-Mart, a pink nylon windbreaker from the Goodwill. He was hoping Sarah would be willing to take her shopping for some other essentials. Items with which Sam and Dean lacked much expertise.

"You boys headin' out," Bobby said matter-of-factly. He had a steaming travel mug in either hand, Cheney whining at his heels.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam and Dean said in almost-unison, Sam stepping forward to accept the mugs while Dean extended a hand to shake.

He followed Bobby's line of sight to Layla, who was already strapped into the backseat, maybe trying to ensure they didn't leave her behind. She hadn't quite forgiven Bobby for her first couple days here. Dean knew it was selfish, but he was just grateful that he and Sam had been given absolution. That she still trusted them.

He hoped they deserved it.

"What are you idjits gonna do now?" Bobby said, and Dean heard the unspoken "with her" in his voice, clear as day.

"I've got a friend who's willing to put us up awhile," Sam said. "We'll take it from there."

"Hum," Bobby said. He squatted down to scratch Cheney behind the ears.

Sam shuffled his feet.

"Gonna be dark soon," Dean said. "We should probably head out."

"Your daddy," Bobby said. "He did a good job with you boys. Best he knew how."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed, and Sam gave a jerky sort of nod in acknowledgment.

"Even so, I sometimes wonder you two came out as good as you did. Which ain't always too good."

"We love you too, Bobby," Sam snorted, but Bobby didn't crack a smile.

"I'm not jokin' around, Sam. Raising a kid is a hard job. Maybe the hardest. And your dad, he had four years of your mom teaching him how."

Sam lowered his voice to a near-whisper.

"What are you saying, Bobby? That we should dump her at the nearest police station? Let them hand her over to Social Services, some foster home? What about when she has a nightmare or runs off in the middle of the night or goes apeshit over something? What are they gonna do then, huh?"

"Okay, Sam." Dean laid a hand on his arm. "Enough."

Did Sam worry about that when they were kids? Dad dropping them at some foster home and going off to hunt the demon on his own. Maybe Layla would be better off in foster care, part of some normal white-bread family. Until someone realized she wasn't quite normal.

"No, Dean," Sam said stubbornly. "I wanna know what he thinks we should do. I want him to tell us."

Bobby raised a brow and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.

"I'm not telling you to do anything, Sam."

--

In Chicago, Sam made them stop at a Barnes and Noble.

"She's been out of school for more than a year," Sam said stubbornly. "I want to get her some books."

She hadn't been in school, true, but that didn't mean someone wasn't teaching her things. But Dean just shrugged and handed over his credit card before going to wait in the café.

They returned a half hour later, Layla carrying a plastic bag the size of her torso. She was smiling, and Dean had to admit, that was about worth the price of admission.

"Have a good time?" Dean asked, nudging a chair out so she could sit.

Layla flopped down, and Dean totally didn't reach out to tug on her pigtail.

"Sam's gonna read me all the _Harry Potter_ books. That's like a million pages total."

Dean reached for his coffee so he wouldn't strangle Sam right there at the Barnes and Noble.

--

They passed most of the drive east with Sam reading _Harry Potter_ aloud and Dean pretending not to get into it.

"Shouldn't we try talking to her?" Dean protested outside Akron, while Layla was using the rest stop bathroom. "See if she'll tell us something?"

"I don't think she's ready yet," Sam said.

"Maybe she'll let something slip if we get her going. Hey, we could play that picnic game?"

"Just give her some time, Dean. Are you sick of Harry? You wanna listen to music for awhile?"

"No," Dean said quickly. "I mean, she likes it, so . . ."

"Okay."

"Just."

"Yeah?"

" 'S better when you do the voices."

--

Dean was crossing the border into New York, feeling kind of sulky because Sam and Layla had both passed out and he could only listen to his tapes so many times before even he was sick of them.

He almost crossed the double yellows when Layla suddenly let out a shriek from the back. In the passenger seat, Sam woke up with a jerk and a muted groan as his knee thumped the glove compartment.

"No, I don't want to," she cried. "Please don't make me!"

"Want me to pull over?" Dean asked, watching Layla thrash around in the rearview.

Sam shook his head and swiveled around enough to stretch an arm into the backseat.

She started awake when Sam touched her, glancing wildly around the car before her eyes locked on Sam's. Dean figured it was mostly just the shock that made her cry, and pride that had her swiping at her face with her sleeve.

"You okay?" Sam asked in his best interrogate-the-victim's-family tone.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"You don't have to be sorry," Sam said.

"Sam's right," Dean agreed. He looked at Sam, and Sam's return stare was pointed. _Don't push, man_.

Dean offered back, _I can be subtle, dude_, and thought, not for the first, that he and Sam had been together way too long if they could hold entire conversations with just their eyes.

Ignoring the pretty serious bitch face he was getting from Sam, Dean tilted his head to meet Layla's gaze in the mirror.

"You wanna tell us what you were dreaming about before?" he asked with as soothing a tone as he could muster at quarter to asscrack in the morning after driving all night without rest.

"I can't remember," Layla murmured. She drew her knees into her chest, tucking her head into the hollow of her legs.

"Listen. Layla. Me and Sam, we just wanna help. And we can't do that if you aren't honest with us."

Layla didn't reply, just dug her forehead further into her kneecaps.

Dean took a chance, kept prodding.

"So let's try this again. What was your dream about?"

"I don't remember!"

Only she didn't just say it. It was more of a scream, piercing enough that Dean wanted to slap his hands over his ears. Je-_sus_.

Sam made another face, which Dean read as, _She's seven years old. What did you expect? _Dean thought their whole silent dialogue thing was getting borderline scary.

"Third in four nights," Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded and sighed, turned his face to mope at the landscape.

Dean sighed and fixed his eyes on the road. Layla was crying in earnest now, silent tears she tried to hide in her sleeve, and the hushed sniffling sound made Dean feel like a complete bastard instead of just a partial one. He fished a tape out from under the seat and popped it in the player, slid his sunglasses over his eyes and let _Boston_ ease his pain.

--

They stopped for the night at some two-bit motor lodge off the interstate. Dean had noticed a 24-hour diner on their way in, and after dropping Sam and Layla in front of their room he drove back for cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes, as Sam had been bitching about all the fries they were eating.

After dinner—during which Sam was not nearly grateful enough for Dean's fry sacrifice—Sam went into the bathroom to shower. Dean stretched out on the bed nearest the door and started flipping channels. One of the movie stations was showing _Jurassic Park,_ and Dean spent a few minutes watching a poor billy goat meet its fate at the hands, or teeth, of a hungry T-Rex before slanting a glance across the room. At the small kitchen table, Layla was turning pages of a thick book that Dean really hoped was _Harry Potter_ and not, like, a History of Succubi.

"Hey," he said, and when she glanced up he patted the bedspread beside him. "C'mere."

After a second's hesitation, she slid down from the chair and crossed the room to stand by the bed. He had to thump on the mattress again to get her to climb up next to him. She arranged herself cross-legged, followed the hand he pointed to the television.

"See that guy with the hurt leg? He's the only one who knew what a bad idea Dino-Disney was. All those other morons were like, hey, great big carnivores, awesome . . . "

Layla conked out while the kids were hiding in the trees. When Sam came out of the bathroom, face pink and hair dripping, he took one look at the television and rolled his eyes.

"You have no concept of appropriate children's programming, do you."

"What are you talkin' about? I used to show you tons of cool stuff."

"_The Shining_? _IT_? I was the only second grader who was scared of clowns!"

"That's just good sense, clowns are fucking terrifying. Don't get your brastrap in a twist, Mister Rogers."

"Fine. You can be the one to comfort her when she has a nightmare about raptors eating her alive."

"Yeah, well. I think raptors would be an improvement on whatever she's been dreaming about."

And yeah, that kind of took the fun out of sniping at each other. Dean motioned for Sam to follow him into the kitchen area. He crossed to the mini-fridge and snagged two cold beers by the necks before joining Sam at the table.

"So?" Dean prompted after a few moments of drinking and companionable silence.

"We're going to be late. Sarah's expecting us tomorrow."

"Call Sarah and explain we're making a stop." Dean shrugged. "We'll tell Layla at breakfast. She's not gonna like it, so the less time she has to think the better."

"She's just starting to trust us again after Bobby's, Dean. Are you sure dragging her to the house where her parents died is our best move here, man?"

"I don't see another option. We gotta know what the hell happened if we want a chance of helping her, right? And why are you arguing with me? I thought we agreed on this, Sam."

"We do. It's just."

Dean sighed, setting his empty bottle down with a soft thud.

"Sam. _What?_"

"These decisions, Dean. There's a lot riding on them now."

"You're kidding me, right? We've been making 'these decisions' for almost five years now, Sam."

"It's different. She's just a kid, and we're . . . not her parents."

"Yeah, well, we're all she's got. So. Maine?"

Sam hesitated before jerking his head in the affirmative.

"All right, Maine."

--

The house where Rick and Maddy Omera lived and died was made up of straight lines and chipping blue paint and set at the end of a rough dirt road with woods on both sides. Dean had prepared himself for developments and SUVs, a sprawling row of split-levels in varying shades of beige. In the end, it was a house he wouldn't altogether hate living in . . . if, you know, he was going to start living anywhere.

Layla was asleep when they arrived so they left her in the car at the end of the gravel drive and took a walk around the perimeter. It was pretty clear the place had been abandoned since the murders, but they knocked at the door and peered in windows just in case.

While Dean got to work picking the lock, Sam went back to the car for Layla. Dean had the door open by the time they returned, Layla yawning into the sleeve of her coat and Sam watching her with a worried expression like he half-expected her to fall apart, or over. Actually, she'd taken the news that they were coming back here, to the house where a demon murdered her parents, better than Dean expected, better than he had responded when Sam made them go back to Lawrence. At any rate, she didn't cry or try to hit anyone, both of which had topped Dean's to-do list in that situation. When they told her that morning, over a breakfast of gas-station donuts and sodas on the road, Layla's only comment was, "I thought we were going to Buffalo."

"We are," Sam said.

"Just taking a little detour," Dean added.

"So we're still going to have wings?"

Sam shot an amused expression at Dean before pivoting in his seat to promise Layla that they could get Buffalo wings, sure.

Layla grinned.

"Good, 'cause Dean says your ears turn red when you eat them, and that sounds really funny."

"You suck so much," Sam told Dean, and Dean only grinned, turned the sound up higher on the stereo.

Now Layla lingered on the front porch, shivering a little inside her windbreaker. Maine in May was pretty brisk, and Dean wondered if they ought to get the kid some warmer clothes. Sam had a hand on her shoulder, and was speaking in the soft soothing voice he reserved for just these occasions.

"Take it nice and easy, okay? We can go as slow as you want."

Layla tilted her head to peer past Sam, through the open doorway into the darkened hallway.

"Are we sure nobody lives here?" she asked them with a frown.

They kept their guns in grabbing range out of habit; they weren't expecting to find anyone. Layla trailed after them, not making a sound expect to sneeze once or twice from the dust. Dean wondered if she had allergies, and asthma, like Sam had at that age. He used to get colds and stuff all the time before he hit puberty and, like magic, grew a foot and a half and developed the constitution of a bull.

There were only two bedrooms, a master on the first floor and a loft which, along with the attic, comprised the second floor. Most of the furniture had been removed, although the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom was still there, stripped down to the mattress. Along the right side, somebody had tried, and failed, to rid it of the stain, faded now to a significant pinkish-brown. Dean nudged Sam, who quickly nudged Layla into another room.

They spent a while in the loft, guessing or maybe just hoping that if anything here were going to spark a memory it would be in the room where she slept for six years. Dean lowered himself onto the bare twin bed, running his hand over a headboard hand-painted to look like the night sky. He trailed his fingers along the lower ridge, where a pair of protective sigils was carved into the wood. Apparently, they hadn't quite done the job.

"Hey, Layla?" Sam said, and Dean glanced up to see her standing in the middle of the room.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she murmured, looking down at her feet in Bela's green sandals.

"You're not supposed to do anything," Sam said. "Just . . . is there anything you want to tell us? Anything at all?"

She hesitated, rubbing her foot along the hardwood. Dean tried to imagine the room full of books and toys and clothes, lived in. He couldn't.

"I don't know," she said again. Dean couldn't quite identify the tone in her voice. It wasn't fear, exactly, or defiance.

"Let's go downstairs," he said.

This time they found the glassed-in space—sun porch was what Sam had called it—that ran the length of the house's rear wall. Beyond the glass wall, the lawn ran wild; clearly it hadn't been cared for much better when it's owners were alive. Dean thought he wouldn't mind cutting the grass back a little, not going all Better Homes and Gardens or anything, but trimming it enough that you could sit out in a lawn chair without having to check yourself for ticks. It wouldn't altogether suck to sit out there with Sam, drinking beers and enjoying the un-noise of not another human for half a mile. If this thing between them kept happening—and Dean had lost too many things to make assumptions—Sam might like messing around out there, under the moonlight or some shit. Dean wasn't exactly hating on the idea either.

"What are you thinking?" Sam asked, bumping Dean's shoulder.

And really that was an obnoxious question, one he'd normally razz Sam a lot for asking, but the nature of his last few thoughts had him feeling guilty, and warm in places he'd rather not mention. He shrugged off Sam's touch and cleared his throat before answering.

"I think we should get outta here. Find a motel."

"Are you sure? Maybe we should take another walk around . . . "

Over Sam's shoulder, Dean watched Layla stand in the middle of what used to be the living room. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. He was kind of glad about that.

"Maybe this was a mistake, Sam. I don't . . . " He trailed off, scraping a hand over the top of his head. Maybe he had developed allergies in his old age; dust was clogging his sinuses, making his throat ache and his eyes tear.

"Dude, talk to me."

"Sam, I know you don't remember anything about the house in Lawrence. But I do, and trust me, it's not a fun place to go back to."

Sam took a hesitant step forward, concern all over his face.

"I know you remember the fire, man. And, hey, I'm sorry about that. I wish neither of us—"

"No, Sam, it's not the fire. Yeah, I remember that night, but I also remember what it was like before. Dad making bunny-rabbit pancakes at the stove and Mom bathing you in the sink while you screamed your head off and . . . fuck. It's not good, Sam. Okay?"

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm the lucky one here. At least I remember Mo—before."

It was true. Dean had pieces of the past at least, the good times before their family went to Hell, or maybe it was Hell that came to them. Dad getting home from work, opening the door, calling out, "Where's my little slugger?" Which seemed ridiculous because, after the fire, Dean couldn't remember one instance of Dad playing catch with either of them.

Sam didn't remember anything. Once he told Dean he thought he remembered their mother holding him, one arm supporting his butt, a handful of her blond hair clutched in his fat baby fist. Sam was completely convinced of this memory until Dean showed him the photo of Mary doing just that, and explained that Sam had just seen the picture so many times that he thought he remembered the actual event. Sam had looked totally crestfallen, and Dad had told Dean to mind his own business.

What was the harm in letting Sam believe?'

Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean with eyes gone soft, and Christ, Dean wished he'd just kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. Sam's hands fluttered before he shoved them down into his pockets.

"I don't think that Layla's remembering the good times here," Sam said finally. "Don't ask me how, I just don't think that's what's going on. But look, it's late. And maybe this isn't the best place to talk to her. We'll go get a motel, okay?"

Dean nodded, grateful that this conversation was over if for nothing else.

"Hey, Layla," he called. "Tell Sam you want burritos for dinner so it's two against one."

She didn't say anything so he went into the living room and found her sitting on the cushionless shell of the couch, and really if he had to see one more heartbreaking sight in the next hour he was going to lose it. He lowered himself down on the arm, reached out to nudge her shoulder.

"Wake up. You're heavy, and I don't wanna carry you to the car."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm teasing. You're pretty light."

"I'm sorry. I don't remember anything," she said softly.

He forced his lips into something like a smile.

"A lot of times, when bad things happen to people, adults too, they don't remember. It's like a game your mind plays so you don't have to think about the bad stuff."

"Dean," Sam said, coming to stand behind him. "I don't think that's what she means. I don't think she's talking about the night her parents . . . " He trailed off.

Dean arched a brow, and Sam went on.

"I don't think she remembers living here."

--

"What could happen to make her forget the last six years of her life?"

"I don't know, Sam, and I don't see us finding out anytime soon. We kind of exorcised the only witness."

They were drinking coffees and listening to Layla splash in the bathtub in the other room. Dean had given her a couple empty Coke cans and a funnel he found under the backseat.

"Don't give me that look," he'd said when Sam raised a brow at the improvised bath toys. "I had to bribe you with Hershey kisses when you were a kid to get you in the bath. We thought you were, like, allergic to soap."

Sam just laughed.

"You bribed me with kisses?"

"Shuddup."

Now Sam drained the last of his coffee and arced the empty Styrofoam into the trashcan.

"The house in Maine was a bust. So we keep looking, right?"

"Mmm," Dean grunted. He was mostly listening to Sam, but he kept an ear peeled toward the bathroom. He was pretty sure seven-year olds were capable of bathing themselves without drowning in the bathtub; but Layla had seemed off all afternoon.

"We hit a few . . . colleges . . . do some research and . . . talk to . . . ah . . . professor—"

Dean looked up to see Sam swaying.

"Sam?"

"Ah, God."

Sam hunched over in the chair, hands wrapping around his skull. Dean was on his feet and rounding the table in two steps. He dropped to his knees, catching Sam by the shoulders in time to keep him from slumping forward onto the floor.

Dean propped Sam up with one hand, the other supporting his back while Sam groaned through the worst of it. Anything Dean could think to say sounded stupid or patronizing so he just kept a hand on Sam's back, waited for him to come out of it.

After a while, Sam raised his head. His face was shiny-slick with sweat, and Dean resisted the urge to go get him a towel. His hand stayed a reassuring weight on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm okay," Sam said finally and gave a little shrug to let Dean know he could let go. The guy could cuddle with the best of them, collapsing atop Dean after sex like a giant man-shaped blanket. But he hated being coddled. Dean couldn't exactly blame him for that.

Dean removed his hand and eased back on his haunches. Sam's breath was coming harsh and shallow, and he had a hand cupped around the side of his head like he was afraid the contents would leak out his ear otherwise.

"You want some water?" Dean said, and Sam's face twisted into a frown.

"I said I'm fine."

Dean curbed the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he shrugged and stood, crossed the room to sit on one of the beds. Sam sat there panting another couple minutes before rising and going to the sink. He filled a plastic cup with water and drank it down slowly. After, he rinsed out the cup and came to sit beside Dean on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder like fellow soldiers.

Knowing by now it was a waste of time trying to push (or nudge) Sam where he didn't want to go, Dean waited, and let Sam set the pace.

"I was back at the house. Rick and Maddy Omeras'."

"Vision?" Dean asked as casually as he could manage.

He couldn't see Sam's face but knew from experience he was frowning. At least this time it wasn't Dean he was frustrated with. So that was something.

"More like a memory," Sam said.

"Layla's," Dean said, and it wasn't even a question. He didn't bother asking why his brother was getting random brain downloads from a kid whose parents were murdered by a demon they bagged a week ago. After all they had seen and experienced these last couple years, it just wasn't that big of a stretch.

"It was early in the morning," Sam was saying. "Still cold. Somebody must have been making breakfast because the house smelled like fresh coffee and bacon."

"Can we get to the part of the story that isn't gonna make me hungry?" Dean quipped, and Sam snorted humorlessly.

"Trust me," Sam said. "The next part's guaranteed to kill even your appetite. I went into the living room, and in the middle of the floor was a woman tied to a chair. She was . . . in a lot of pain. I couldn't make out everything she was saying, but she kept repeating the words, 'no, please' and 'I have a daughter.'"

Dean tried to picture Maddy Omera but all he could see was a grown-up version of Layla—blond hair and big, frightened eyes. He shuddered.

"That all you remember?" he said, tone a little huskier than he would have liked.

"I tried to get a better look, but . . . " Sam sounded so guilty that Dean had the urge to pat his back again, say it was okay. "I was behind her. I'm pretty sure her hair was supposed to be blond."

"Supposed to be?"

"There was a lot of blood."

"Jesus." Dean closed his eyes. It was enough that the kid was an orphan now. That she'd actually seen the demon kill her parents, at least her mother, seemed too cruel. Dean didn't believe in much of anything, but if he did he would have prayed that Layla not remember this.

"And then it was like I blacked out for a few minutes. When I woke up, I knew she was dead."

"Was it the demon bitch who did it? One we wasted in Georgia?"

"I guess. I couldn't see her face, but . . . I mean, that makes sense. I wish we'd kept her alive for a while," Sam said darkly. "I wish we hadn't exorcised her so quickly."

Dean hadn't heard his brother's voice take on that tone in about nine months. The one that vowed not just retribution but pain, and promised to take a lot of pleasure in the process.

"Yeah, well," Dean said facing forward. "Can't get much deader than dead."

"Oh God. Dean. I could smell bacon frying."

"Yeah, you mentioned the bacon."

"Her parents must have been cooking breakfast when the demon . . . when it came. I brought bacon and egg sandwiches back to the room that day she ran off. Do you think that's why . . .?"

"I don't know. And there's no way for you to either. Focusing on mistakes we made ain't gonna help her now. Right?"

Sam sighed. He sounded like himself again, worn-weary and too old for twenty-six.

"I'm just . . . so tired."

"What was that?" Dean asked even though he had heard Sam just fine.

"I don't wanna let her go, Dean. Not her too, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said.

_Anything, Sam._

--


	2. Part 2

Part 2

Part 2

They pulled into Sarah's driveway at a quarter to nine, Sam painfully alert despite the fact that he hadn't slept more than two hours at a stretch since Chicago.

"You want me to pull over so we can switch spots?" Dean had asked him a half hour before. "Make her think I let you drive sometimes?"

Sam shot him a look that he hoped discouraged further commentary.

"_O_-kay," Dean had said, leaving Sam to press his face against the window and watch the suburbs bleed past.

Sarah had a small ranch in a nice part of town—the kind with lots of kids and lawnmowers and a good-sized library. She answered the door wearing jeans and a loose gray top that left her arms bare. Her hair was shorter than Sam remembered, barely skimming her shoulders. He suddenly recalled how much he genuinely _liked_ her.

"Hey, guys," she greeted them, and the smile she flashed was bright and true and showed in her eyes. It was kind of nice—strange, but nice—for someone to be glad to see them.

Sarah's eyes searched the porch for Layla, discovered her hiding behind Sam's legs.

"Hi, I'm Sarah."

Sam dropped a hand on Layla's shoulder, gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before drawing her out.

"Wow," Layla said. "Dean's right, you are really pretty."

There was an awkward silence. Dean actually blushed. Sam opened his arms and forced a smile.

"Hey, Sarah, how've you been?"

She felt good, and familiar like a place you haven't been in a long time—all soft, warm girl against his chest. He tried to remember the last real hug he'd had. Dean, up against the wall outside Bobby's. The sun was climbing the sky and Dean's mouth was sucking the beginnings of a hickey into his throat. Dean's skin was warm from the sun, damp from his early-morning run, and Sam had clung for an extra few seconds.

Did that count as hugging?

Sarah let go too soon, pausing to brush a kiss over Sam's cheek before pulling away and turning to his brother.

"Did you miss us?" Dean asked, cocky smile firmly in place again.

Sarah smiled and hugged him, too, before inviting them all inside. They followed her through an entryway and into the living room, which was warm and homey, a fire burning in the fireplace. A few artfully placed black and white photographs decorated the walls. Sam didn't see any paintings.

Always subtle, Dean cleared his throat loudly.

"Nice place you got here."

"You guys must be exhausted," she said. "Come on. I'll give you the tour, brief though it may be, and show you where to sleep."

A hallway to the right of the living room led to the bedrooms—master suite to the left, to the right an office and the spare room all the way at the far end.

"There's a pullout couch in the office. I thought that would be good for Layla. It's all made up, extra pillows . . ." She smiled at Layla, blinking when she didn't get a response. "I'm afraid the guest room only has a queen. Sorry."

"It's fine," Sam said. "Really, don't worry about us."

"I thought you guys wouldn't mind too much," she said. "Sharing hotel rooms all these years . . . I figured it wouldn't be the first time you slept together."

Sam was glad they weren't eating or drinking because Dean totally would have choked.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, "why don't you get Layla settled in her room?"

"I'm not sleepy," Layla said, making Sam wonder how many times he'd attempted that same line of reasoning with Dad, with Dean. Dean was more likely to cave, allowing Sam an extra half hour of TV-time wrapped up in the scratchy wool blanket they kept thrown over the back of the couch, pretending not to be afraid of whatever monster movie Dean was engrossed in.

"You don't have to sleep," Sam said. "You can lie in bed and read." He swung his backpack down from his shoulders and gave it to her. "Harry's in the big pocket, okay?"

"I wanna stay up with you," she whined.

Dean reached down to ruffle her hair.

"Be good and I'll tell you about the time Sam ripped his shorts open in front of half the field hockey team," he promised.

"Are you gonna leave me here?" Layla said.

Dean looked sort of stunned. Sarah licked her lips and stared politely at her feet, bare and brown against the floor.

"I don't wanna stay here," Layla whispered, presumably for Sarah's benefit, and Sam wondered vaguely if they were succeeding at teaching her manners. He crouched down in front of her, resting his palms on his knees, and looked her square in the eye.

"I promise we're not going to leave you here, Layla."

She studied his face for a second before she seemed to decide he was telling the truth. She relaxed, shoulders slumping before she drew them straight again.

"You don't have to put me to bed," she told Dean.

"Uh, I don't mind," Dean said, and she shook her head fiercely.

"I'm not a baby. I can tuck myself in." She picked up Sam's backpack by the handle and lugged it into the office, where she set it by the bed.

"Okay, Layla," Sam said because Dean was still staring with a blank sort of expression on his face. "We'll be right next door if you need us. G'night."

And then they were left alone in the hall, three adults looking and feeling increasingly awkward.

"Is she . . .?" Sarah began.

"Fine," Sam said. "Except that . . . except that that's a total lie. She's the exact opposite of fine." He let out a short bark of a laugh. "Dean and I don't have a clue what we're doing. It's just been this wild guessing game since we took her in, not knowing what's going to help and what's gonna make things a hundred times worse, and, this is going to sound horribly sexist, but seriously, Sarah? We could really use a woman's point of view."

Sarah opened her mouth but Dean spoke up before she could say anything.

"I'm goin' to bed."

Sarah blinked, pushing away from the wall with the flat of her hand.

"You guys must be exhausted. I'll show you where the towels are and let you get some sleep—"

"Sam slept a bunch in the car," Dean interrupted before Sam could respond. "Right, Sammy? Anyway, how long's it been since you guys have seen each other? Uh huh, you oughta spend some time getting reacquainted. Night, you two."

He went into the spare room and shut the door before anyone could argue.

"Hey," Sarah said. "How about I make you a sexist sandwich and we sit down and talk?"

Sam laughed.

"Tell you what: I'll make you a sandwich. How's that?"

They sat facing each other across the breakfast bar, eating grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and drinking herbal tea.

"So," Sarah said, licking crumbs from the tip of her finger. "If I asked you what you've been doing the last few years, is there a chance in Hell you'd tell me?"

"Hell was sort of the highlight. Trust me, you don't wanna know."

"You're tired, so I'll let you get away with that for now."

"I appreciate it," he said chuckling. He took a sip of tea even though he knew it was still too hot and immediately scalded his tongue.

"Tell me about Layla," she asked, settling back in her chair. And Sam told her everything they knew about the demon and the abandoned house and the fire. He told her about the Omeras and the house in Maine, and about the vision he had, and how they thought Layla had witnessed her parents' deaths.

"Most of the time she's a regular kid. Jokes with me and Dean. Asks to stay up past bedtime . . . But then there are the nightmares. She'll wake up screaming her head off, won't tell us what she was dreaming about. A couple times she's wandered off."

Like at the truck stop outside Chicago where they gassed up. They left a sleeping Layla in the Impala while Dean went to take a leak and Sam headed inside to buy drinks; when they got back to the car she was gone. Naturally they'd panicked, Dean interrogating random motorists and Sam trying hard not to envision all the gruesome possibilities for what could happen to a little kid alone on a desolate stretch of highway. Luckily, before Sam could have a panic attack, and before Dean could commit any homicides, Sam found Layla sitting on a picnic table in a patch of grass. She was staring into the setting sun, a trance-like expression on her face.

"What were you thinking?" Sam had asked, picking her up and shaking her a little. "You could have gotten hurt!" Layla blinked at him, murmuring that she was sorry over and over.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean had said when he jogged over. He scooped Layla out of Sam's arms and onto his hip even though she was really too big for them to carry her around like that. "Can't you see she's freaked?"

"Dean, she could have been . . . " Sam didn't bother finishing the sentence. Dean knew as well as he what could have happened. Instead, he went into the filthy men's room, splashed cool water on his face and waited for his breathing to return to normal.

"Do you think she might try to hurt herself?" Sarah asked now, a frown crinkling her face above the lip of her teacup.

"We don't know why the demon took her, Sarah. And until we find out we're pretty much in the dark. She might try to hurt herself . . . or someone else. Listen, Sarah, if you wanted us to go, I'd understand."

"You're not going anywhere, Sam. Any of you."

"I just don't want you to think you owe me anything."

"Wow, Sam. I don't remember you being this stupid."

"Yeah, well, I've had some time to practice," he muttered. "Still, I want you to sleep with you door locked. And, if you agree, I'm going to have Dean teach you how to use a gun."

"Why don't you teach me?"

"Don't tell Dean this, but he's a better shot. I could give you a few lessons in basic self-defense if you wanted." He stared glumly into the dredges of his tea, cold and too-sweet way down at the bottom of the mug. "I hate forcing all this on you," he said.

"Seriously, Sam. If you keep saying stupid stuff I'm going to start wondering why I ever agreed to go on a date."

"I'm not kidding, Sarah." Sam put down his cup. "This stuff isn't a joke. And this world, Dean's and mine, isn't a nice place."

"Really," she said flatly, "because I thought it was all kittens and sunshine."

Sam felt a little stab of anger that was tempered by a glance at her face, and those strong intelligent eyes of hers.

"I wish we'd had more than just the one date," he said before he could reconsider.

She didn't smile but her expression softened somewhat.

"If I lock my door at night I might be keeping certain people out. People I might want to come inside."

"Sarah." He didn't say anything else, just stared at his empty plate.

"No offense," she said. "You're a good-looking guy, Sam. But right now you look awful."

"Thanks," he laughed. "You look amazing, still."

--

Dean was asleep when Sam finally got to bed, sometime after three. Of course he was passed out in the middle of the bed, and Sam stood there shivering in his shorts and shoved at Dean's shoulder until Dean reluctantly rolled over.

"Get laid?" Dean asked, a sleepy mumble from the other side of the bed.

Sam sighed, mumbled something noncommittal. He didn't want to have this conversation—fight—just now. Just now he wanted to sleep for an eon. Of course, Dean had never been good at sensing Sam's moods. Or rather, he could sense when Sam wanted to be left alone, just chose not to accommodate him.

"What was that, Sammy? Couldn't hear ya."

"I said, we talked."

"Dirty?"

"Go to sleep, Dean."

--

In the morning, Layla sulked and refused to eat the cinnamon buns Sarah made before leaving for work.

"I said I don't want it," Layla protested when Sam pressed the issue.

Dean deliberately buried his nose in the sports' section. Sam leaned over to kick him under the table.

"What?" Dean mouthed. He added softly, "You don't need my permission, dude."

Sam sighed and turned to Layla, who was slumped down in her chair, lip twisted in a sneer that looked ridiculous on a seven-year old with a mustache made of OJ.

"If you don't want a cinnamon bun, you can have cereal. But you need to eat, all right?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, _"You're not asking, Sammy_."

"I'm not hungry!" Layla exclaimed, and Sam laid down his coffee mug and sat up straighter.

"I understand that you're upset with Dean and me for bringing you here. I get that you're scared, but that's not an excuse for acting like a brat. And if you keep acting that way, you're going to get punished." He managed not to tack a nervous 'okay' on the end of his sentence, but couldn't quite refrain from glancing at Dean for approval. Dammit.

Layla's mouth had fallen open and she was sitting up in her chair.

"How?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"Uh . . .what was that?"

"How are you going to punish me? Are you gonna spank me?"

She looked at once horrified and fascinated, and Sam found himself squirming in his chair.

"Uh . . . I don't. I mean—"

He slanted a glance at Dean, who was shaking with silent laughter. Dean took pity on him and reached over to tweak Layla's ponytail.

"Sam only spanks girls when they've been _really_ bad," he told her, winking.

"I'll be good," Layla said a little breathlessly. She darted a look at Sam under her bangs before blushing and looking away. She was grinning when she selected the biggest cinnamon bun from the platter in the middle of the table.

Sam took a long sip of coffee and pretended to ignore the way Dean was grinning over the rim of his cup.

--

It took a few days, but Layla seemed to come around to the idea that Sam and Dean weren't going to abandon her in upstate New York. She even consented to a shopping trip with Sarah on Saturday morning, though she wouldn't get in the car until they promised they would be home, waiting, when she returned.

She seemed sweetly, sadly relieved to find them in the kitchen drinking coffee, Sarah's table buried beneath a layer of books and papers.

"Did you have a good time?" Sam asked, and Layla just shrugged. She wormed between his and Dean's chairs.

Sam looked at Sarah, tried to transpose his face into an apology. She just smiled and asked if anyone needed a refill before going to the coffee maker.

Layla was burrowing against Dean, trying to see what he was reading. Sam, who thought demon sex rituals might not be the most appropriate topic for a seven-year old, kicked Dean under the table.

Dean kicked back amicably before closing the book with a dusty belch. He snaked an arm out to tickle Layla in the ribs.

"You had me worried," he said, giving her braid a tug. "Thought you might come back wearing a dress or something."

"Layla, why don't you show the guys some of your new clothes?" Sarah suggested approaching the table.

Sam hurried to unearth one of the chairs for her, scooping a pile of news clippings onto the floor. Sarah offered a smile in thanks.

Layla made a face and rested her cheek against the side of Dean's arm. Sam frowned; she was an affectionate kid, sure, more every day she was with them. Clingy, though, that wasn't like her.

"They don't care about stupid girl clothes," Layla told Sarah. "If you knew them at all, you'd know that."

"Hey." Dean flicked her arm, apparently his preferred method of discipline. Come to think of it, Sam remembered receiving the same treatment when he had been particularly annoying as a kid. "I care plenty about girl clothes."

"Dean," Sam warned, but his brother merely grinned. "Show us what you got, Layla. Really, we wanna see."

Layla sighed dramatically and disappeared into the living room to retrieve the plastic bag containing her purchases.

Back in the kitchen, she laid the items out one by one—jeans and t-shirts, button-up sweaters in pale blue and purple, an orange flowered pajama set.

Sarah picked up a t-shirt with a butterfly pattern.

"This is going to look so pretty on you, Layla. You have an artistic eye."

Layla screwed up her face.

"I can pick out a shirt, I'm not a freakin' moron."

Sam opened his mouth but Dean beat him to it.

"Hey," he barked. "Watch it."

"Sorry," she murmured, voice already cracking under the strain.

"Good," Dean told her. "Now go to your room."

Layla looked up, eyes wet and shining.

"I don't have a room, I have an office!"

"Well go to your office!" Dean shouted back, and Layla burst into tears and turned and fled.

"Oh my God," Dean said when she was gone. He lowered his head to the tabletop and groaned. "I'm Dad."

Sam ignored him because that idea was just too disturbing to contemplate.

"Give us the bill for the clothes and we'll take care of it," he told Sarah.

"It's my treat," she said, lifting her chin.

"Sarah," Sam began, but Dean shook his head.

"Dude, we owe her for a lot more than clothes."

And Sam couldn't really argue with that. The coffee maker startled to gurgle, and Sarah went to the counter. Sam sighed and stood up, cracking his spine, which was stiff from sitting curved over the table too long.

"I should go talk to her."

Dean frowned.

"Sit and drink your coffee. I'll go have the _Full House_ moment."

Sam shook his head.

"You just referenced _Full House_. I'm gonna be the one to talk to her from now on."

--

"I'm sorry," Layla said as soon as Sam nudged the door open. She was sitting on the fold-out bed, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes bright and wet and miserable.

Sam felt any lingering annoyance drain away and dropped down beside her.

"Yeah," he said because, he'd never been on this end of the discussion before and Jesus, it sucked just as much as the other side. "I know y'are."

Unable to help himself, he stroked a hand over her soft, kid hair.

"Sarah really likes you," he said. "You hurt her feelings before."

Layla made a snuffling sound, said nothing.

"She's my friend," Sam tried. "And she just wants to help."

Layla sighed, whispered something he didn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

"She's pretty cool," Layla said. "She took me to the bookstore and helped me pick out a really awesome book about kids who are also detectives."

"She is pretty cool," Sam agreed. "So why're you being a brat, huh?"

He gave her ponytail a light tug to let her know he wasn't really angry anymore.

Layla shrugged.

"First I thought you were gonna leave me here with her. And she's cool, but . . . I wanna stay with you and Dean."

"Yeah, I think we got that," Sam teased. "Anything else bothering you? Because you know, just because Sarah's my friend doesn't mean you and I aren't friends anymore—"

Layla giggled.

"I'm not dumb, Sam."

"I'm pretty sure no one would make that mistake," he agreed. "So, if it's not that—"

"Sam, will Dean stop liking me if I sometimes do girl stuff with Sarah? I still love the Ampala and stuff, but it was really fun picking out clothes, and Sarah let me get two colors of nail polish, purple and blue, and will Dean still like me if I paint my fingernails?"

She drew a deep breath as though the last had exhausted her. Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn't laugh.

"Layla, I promise Dean will still like you. Even if you paint your fingernails _and _toenails."

Layla dropped her shoulders with a sigh of relief.

"Good." She lifted her head again, eyes wide. "Are you gonna spank me now?"

Sam groaned and flung himself back on the bed.

--

Dean had rented _The Goonies_ and he and Layla were sprawled on the living room sofa, a box of Snow Caps propped between them. From the kitchen, Sam half-listened to their conversation. Dean was trying to convince Layla Sloth wasn't that bad-looking, much to Layla's noisy protests, and Sam, lost in his own thoughts, almost didn't hear Dean creep up behind him.

"You know what's funny?" Dean asked, sliding a hand in the back pocket of Sam's jeans and breathing over the back of his neck.

"What?" Sam said, automatically checking over his shoulder to be sure they were alone.

"She wasn't worried that _you'd_ stop liking her."

"Maybe she's just more secure in our relationship," Sam said, dipping a wooden spoon in the sauce to sample.

"Or maybe," Dean said, leaning in to lick a speck of sauce from the corner of Sam's mouth, "she just thinks you're a big girl."

Sam replaced the spoon on the stove and laid a hand over Dean's dick, the other sliding around to curl in the small of his back.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean said, twisting away.

Sam let him go but met his gaze with hard eyes.

"I'm not the only one who needs this." He tried not to let the desperation creep into his tone but figured it was a losing effort. It had been too damn long and he needed to touch.

"God, you're a pushy bitch," Dean sighed, but he slid a warm hand over Sam's collarbone and squeezed. "Soon, dude. Okay?"

Dean turned and staggered into the living room, calling, "Sloth want Layla," in a grumbly monster-voice until Sam was laughing too hard to stir the sauce.

--

So slowly.

If Sam didn't know better, hadn't seen certain proof to the contrary with his own two eyes, he would have thought Dean wanted to kill him.

Dean's tongue traced a wide wet path along Sam's belly before his teeth closed none-too-gently over Sam's hipbone.

"Ow," Sam hissed at the almost-pain.

"Good ow or bad ow?" Dean asked, lifting his head.

Sam palmed Dean's head, his fingers conforming to the shape of Dean's skull, and pressed down instead of answering.

Dean bit him again and then pressed a kiss where the skin was still tender. Sam loved when Dean used his teeth, perfectly straight and white, and no way was that from regular trips to the dentist. Sam couldn't remember ever visiting a dentist until he was nineteen years old and on the college's health plan. (He'd had seventy-three stitches by then, and four broken bones, and none of that had seemed as terrifying as letting some dentist scrape his gums. The first time, Jess offered to hold his hand and it took every ounce of bravery Sam possessed not to take her up on it.)

As a kid, Dean had been obsessive when it came to his teeth—maybe he anticipated how important his mouth would be in the future—and would spend long minutes in front of the mirror each night, brushing and flossing and gargling with that vile blue wash that made Sam want to gag. Most nights Dean hauled Sam into the bathroom by his sleeve, held him until he brushed to Dean's satisfaction. Sam supposed he could thank Dean for the fact that all his teeth didn't fall out before he was twenty-five.

Maybe he should be more worried by that: how easy it was to merge the Dean who played a significant role in raising him with the one currently licking a horizontal stripe across Sam's belly. Sam didn't plan to lose much sleep over the matter. He figured the world owed them this.

He knew it was harder for Dean. Dean who believed he could protect Sam from everything, from gingivitus to death, if only he tried hard enough, sacrificed enough.

Dean kissed into the crease of Sam's thigh, his lips mouthing along soft worn flannel. He hesitated, cheek pressed to the raised crotch of Sam's pajama pants, breath trailing across Sam's bare belly, seemingly lost in thought.

"Dean?"

Dean thrust a hand under the waist of Sam's pants and started pulling him off in long slow strokes.

"Fuck," Sam hissed, neck arching back.

Sam let the sensation coil in his gut, building and warming, gaining in intensity until he realized Dean wasn't really paying attention. He continued jerking Sam but his mind wasn't there, Sam could tell.

"Hey," Sam said. "You okay? You seem kinda distracted, man."

Dean sighed and sat up, swiping a hand over spit-slick lips. He hovered over Sam, gold-ringed green eyes boring into Sam's own.

"I don't have a problem, Sam. Do you?"

No, Sam decided, clamping a hand down on the back of Dean's neck. No problems here. He opened his mouth and let Dean lick his way in. This close, Dean seemed to relax, to breathe easier. Like even he couldn't fail to protect Sam when they were this wrapped up in each other.

Sam had spent twenty-five years, give or take, in pursuit of a normal life while Dean spent most of the same time fighting against one. When they were kids, Dean dogged Dad's every step—learning to shoot or slice with every weapon in John's arsenal, dutifully pouring over the Latin texts when it was clear he didn't have the ear for Spanish—while Sam asked for trapper keepers and library cards and Snoopy valentines for his homeroom class.

Now it was Dean trying to preserve a sliver of normality while Sam had long stopped caring what anyone else thought. Though, to be fair, there were few people left to care. Bobby. Ellen.

Sam supposed he should think about laws and codes and moral rights and wrongs, but right now he was more interested in what Dean was doing with that beautiful, well-cared-for mouth.

"Hey," Dean said now, breath chuffing warm and amused in Sam's ear. "Remind me which of us is distracted."

"I'm gonna suck you off now," Sam said carefully, as though deciding it just then.

"Jesus," Dean said, a shudder rolling through his body as Sam climbed on top.

One second Sam was kissing Dean, wet and filthy-deep, and the next he heard the creak of the door opening, saw light from the hall spilling into the room.

He noticed her feet first, small and bare beneath the trailing hem of her pajama pants.

Her eyes were staring, vacant, not dark with demon-possession but not wholly present either. Dangling limply at her side, like a teddy bear held by its leg, was an eight-inch meat cleaver from Sarah's kitchen. She stood in the doorway, watching without seeing, waiting.

Dean got there first, though not by much. Sam was by his side in time to watch Dean's fingers ensnare her tiny wrist, trying to force her to drop the knife. Two hours ago that same hand, its fingernails dark with the Violent Violet polish she chose herself, turned the pages of _Harry Potter_.

Layla, or the thing inhabiting her body, let out a shriek when Dean finally shook the knife free from her grasp. Sam heard something crack, snatched up the knife and threw it across the room. He turned back to see Layla slump forward into Dean's chest, the fight seemingly gone out of her.

"Dean," Sam murmured, not even sure what he was trying to warn his brother against.

"Get the light, Sam," Dean said, and Sam obeyed, not knowing what else to do.

He hurried to flick on the bedside lamp, and when he returned Dean had lifted Layla onto the bed.

For the first time, Sam noticed the thin line of silvery red running down Dean's forearm like a strand of thread, marveled that Dean hadn't uttered a sound when the knife sliced him. Yet another legacy of being born a Winchester—the ability to deny hurt until you literally bled to death.

Sam caught Dean's gaze before lowering himself gingerly to the bed, preparing to grab Layla by the shoulders if she spazzed again. She was starting to stir, face crumpling like she was in pain, breath coming faster.

She opened her eyes, and Sam almost sagged with relief when her long-lashed brown gaze locked with his.

"Sam?"

"It's okay, shhh." He glanced at Dean, who was curiously silent, before leaning forward to slide a hand through Layla's hair, murmur some more nonsense to quiet her. "You're okay."

She had her lower lip clamped tightly between her teeth, her breath still coming in harsh pants. She glanced over at Dean, and Sam noticed the liquid gleam in her eyes, realized she was struggling not to cry.

Sam moved to pull her in for a hug but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Don't, Sam," he said gruffly.

"What? Why?"

Dean gave a little jerk of his head, and Sam followed the motion. In the soft glow of the lamplight, Sam could just see that Layla's right wrist was beginning to swell.

"I think I broke her arm," Dean said quietly.

--

"It's not your fault," Sam whispered.

Beside him, Sarah made a face and pushed away from the counter against which they were both leaning. She crossed to the window of the tiny room and parted the blinds, peering out over the still, silent parking lot.

After a long moment, she turned, burrowing deeper into the hooded sweatshirt she wore over her pajamas. Her shoulders dug down, causing the soft gray material to bus her cheek, and Sam marveled at how beautiful she managed to look under fluorescent hospital lights in the middle of the goddamn night.

"Yeah, Sam. I realize that. Doesn't mean I shouldn't have remembered to lock up those knives."

Sam sighed and considered resting a friendly hand on her shoulder, in comfort or apology, he wasn't sure which. He had just decided it would be safer to stick his hands in his jacket pockets when the door opened, and an orderly wheeled Layla inside.

"Hey," Sam said when the orderly had left again. "Pretty cool cast you got there." He grinned and gestured to the black plaster swathing her lower arm to the elbow.

"Thanks," Layla said, "Where's Dean?" and Sam had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Layla had been asking that very question, or a variation on the theme, since Dean's rapid disappearance upon their arrival at the ER. Sam got the hero-worship thing, he really did, but a guy could only take so much.

"He, uh . . . " _Well, Layla, he's blaming himself for this just like he does everything else. And God, when you grow up I hope you have better taste in men than I do._ "Dean is—"

"He's probably out buying you the softest teddy bear he can find," Sarah interrupted, pushing past Sam to rest a hand on Layla's shoulder.

Layla smiled faintly and clutched her injured arm to her chest.

"Okay," she said around a yawn.

"Tired?" Sarah asked softly, and Layla shrugged.

"They asked a lot of questions."

Sam and Sarah exchanged meaningful glances.

"What, uh, what kind of questions?" Sam asked casually.

Layla shrugged again and traced an idle finger along the top of her cast.

"Whether I hurt myself a lot."

"What did you tell them?" Sam asked, heart hammering and eyes scanning the exits in case they had to make an abrupt departure.

"I told them I never broke any bones before but wouldn't it be cool if they could regrow them like in Harry Potter? But the lady didn't laugh, I guess she didn't read it. Then she asked how I broke my wrist, and I told them I tripped like you said. She asked next what I tripped over, and I said it was the dog, and when she asked what kind of dog, I said a spaniel—that's a kind right—and, Sam, maybe we could get a dog?" she finished on another yawn.

Sam sighed, fear trickling out on a sharp, humorless laugh. He leaned back against the counter, afraid his knees would buckle and he'd really make an idiot of himself. He wanted to laugh and cry because, well, two weeks in their company and already she was lying to ER docs.

"Are you okay, Sam?" Layla asked. "And do you think Dean will be back soon?"

"Pretty safe bet," a voice said from the doorway, and Sam lifted his head at the familiar sound.

He resisted the urge to ask, _Where the Hell have you been?_ He didn't want to hear whatever piece of fiction Dean had at the ready.

"I'm going to go make sure the paperwork's settled," Sarah said before slipping quietly out the door, one hand squeezing Dean's arm in passing. Dean didn't pull away from her touch but Sam could tell it was an effort for him to refrain.

Layla was squirming around in her chair, excited by Dean's presence but trying to play it cool. Sam wished she'd just stop moving before she broke the other arm, and Christ, when did he turn into such a worrywart? _Always have been, Sammy_, that's what Dean would say. Dean, Sam decided, was a frikkin' hypocrite.

"All patched up?" Dean said, offering Layla a ghost of his usual smirk. The skin around his mouth was drawn tight, his eyes black holes against the white of his face. Sam knew he wasn't just suffering from lack of sleep.

"Dean, wanna see my cast?" Layla asked, practically bouncing now.

She held up her arm for Dean's inspection, and his fingers hovered over the plaster, not quite touching. After a moment he withdrew his hand, and backed up a pace. Like he was scared to get too close.

"My favorite color," he said easily, then cleared his throat and added, "Whadda ya say we get outta this place and go home?"

--

Dean lingered in Sarah's home office, hugging the wall while Sam tucked Layla underneath a pile of blankets and fed her painkillers.

When she was settled, Sam opened _Harry_ and began to read; by the third paragraph Layla was already starting to fade.

"Get some sleep," he murmured, sliding a hand along her hair at the crown.

"Wait." She thrust out her good arm. "Sam."

"Yeah, 'm right here," he said softly, but she just shook her head.

"Other Sam."

Behind him, Dean snorted and tossed the stuffed monkey he'd been holding at Sam's chest. Sam caught it, glared down at the black and brown ball of fur before sighing and handing it over.

"Can you tuck Little Sam in too?" Layla asked, and she probably would have pulled it off, too, if she weren't so doped up on pain pills.

"How much did Dean pay you to ask me that?" Sam wondered aloud.

Layla's face split into a grin but she said nothing, already a disciple of Dean's school of not squealing on . . . well, Dean.

"Next time hold out for double," Sam advised, and tucked in the damn monkey before crossing to the light switch. "Sleep tight, okay?"

He drew the door shut and secured the chain before turning to face his brother. Dean's head was bowed so Sam couldn't see his face, but the tight line of his shoulders gave him away. He looked ready to crack open.

"We need to talk," Sam said quietly, not sure if Dean was more likely to break down or throw a punch in his current state, kind of hoping it was the latter.

"Not now, Sam," was the response, and okay yeah, that got him pissed. Dean acted like Sam was always after an emotional heart-to-heart when really all Sam wanted was to keep them breathing. And as hard as it was for Dean to believe, their survival occasionally depended on them having an actual conversation. Sam thought it was funny and also really annoying that Dean expected him to share his every worry and vision and freaking ass-ache without ever reciprocating. Dean liked to tell Sam they were partners but what he meant by that was that Sam should lean on Dean, not the other way around. Sam was good and sick of it.

"Uh, yeah, it's definitely going to be now," Sam said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Go have a drink if you need to, but we're sitting down in ten minutes, and we're talking."

He didn't wait for an answer, would have been surprised if Dean offered one. Instead he crouched down by the duffle bag he'd left outside Layla's room. He retrieved the salt canister and shook a thick band across the length of the door.

--

Sam showered, letting the hot water beat down on tightly clenched muscles. He soaped and rinsed and then turned the dial all the way to the right, hoping the blast of frigid water would do something to stimulate his drowsy brain cells.

He pulled on sweatpants—Dean's but who was keeping track these days—and a T-shirt that had been washed sometime in the last couple weeks. Feet bare, he padded into the living room where he found Dean and Sarah sitting around the coffee table.

Sarah was on one end of the couch, her body tense and poised on the very edge of the cushion. Dean sat in the armchair, slouched back with legs sprawling. Sam might have thought he was relaxed if not for the way his left hand was gripping the seat arm, his knuckles gone white with the strain.

They were drinking, whiskey by the look of it, and not just a little.

Sam sat down on the couch beside Sarah, and reached over to give her knee a light squeeze. She twitched her lips in a faint gesture, more acknowledgment than actual smile, and poured Sam two fingers without asking.

"You a big whiskey-drinker, Sarah?" Sam asked, raising the glass to sniff.

"It's my dad's. It's either this or a six-pack of Corona, and I figured—"

"Corona ain't gonna cut it," Dean finished. He looked up from his own glass long enough to slant a curious glance at Sam. "Dude, are those my pants?"

"Guys," Sarah interjected, probably wisely in Sam's opinion, "we need to talk about what we're gonna do here. It's pretty clear that little girl's getting worse."

Dean snorted. "That's putting it mildly."

"Sam, you told me demons sometimes possess people," she continued, unperturbed by Dean's outburst. "Was Layla possessed when she attacked you?"

"Doubtful," Sam said, and off Sarah's quirked brow he explained, "no black eyes or smoke. And she didn't react to the holy water after, so, no I don't think it's a possession we're dealing with here. Still, I'm pretty sure she wasn't the one driving when she came into our room tonight."

Dean cocked an eyebrow, not sitting up yet but interested.

"What are you thinking, Sammy?"

"Keep in mind this is just a theory," Sam began. "But do you remember Dad talking about something called an imprint?"

He could almost see Dean racking his brain to remember.

"Yeah," Dean said finally. "We were working that the mental institution job. Massachusetts, right? What was that, a decade ago?"

"Westboro Mental Hospital in Westboro, Mass. Summer between my sophomore and junior years, so yeah. About ten years."

"What happened in Massachusetts?" Sarah asked, sitting forward.

Sam remembered that summer, how pissed off he'd been when Dad dragged him out of his school in Texas two days before the End-of-Classes Dance. He was supposed to go with Jenna Maloney. Sam still remembered her little upturned nose and how it had felt to kiss her. He spent the first few days in Massachusetts ignoring his father, and Dean who had taken Dad's side. But the case was intriguing, and despite himself he'd started listening to their conversations.

"Dad got a call from an old friend of his, an army nurse who worked at the hospital," Sam explained. "She was worried about one of her patients. He was this sweet old man—everyone on staff was crazy about him."

"Until one day he stole a nail file out of a doctor's wife's purse and used it to kill three of the other patients," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Only he didn't just kill them, he did stuff with their bodies after. Weird blood rituals, which is what got Dad interested in the first place.

"Right," Sam said. "Now Dad figured the old man was being possessed but when we got a hold of him he was clean. No reaction to holy water or exorcism, nothing. Dad kept digging, and I don't know how he did it but he realized the guy had been possessed back when he was a kid. And what he was experiencing now were memories of the original possession."

"I don't understand," Sarah said. "Why would a memory cause him to start killing people? Especially if he'd lived with it his whole life until now."

Sam avoided meeting Dean's eyes when he answered her.

"That kind of evil gets inside you—demon evil—it leaves an impression behind. An imprint on the soul, you might say. It's stronger in children, probably because their brains are still developing. And in the mentally ill." Sam glanced away, lost in memory.

"This guy had been fighting off the memories his whole life, but when the dementia set in he couldn't do it anymore," Dean said. "He stopped being able to control it, and so he started killing. Doing what the demon did when it was inside him fifty years earlier."

Sarah was quiet for a long time. Sam and Dean exchanged glances before Sam laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

"Uh huh. It's just . . . I spent the summer after tenth grade at a sailing camp in Europe."

Sam offered a sympathetic smile.

"Um, guys?" Sarah said. "Out of curiosity, what happened to the old man at the mental hospital? Were you able to help him?"

Sam looked at his hands, and Dean cleared his throat.

"He went off again, grabbed one of Dad's knives and started swinging. We had to take him down."

"You were right," Sam said, catching Sarah's gaze. "Layla is getting worse and this . . . is speculation at best." He glanced at his brother before adding, "Which is why Dean and I should take Layla and go."

Sarah put down her drink on the coffee table with a hard clunking sound that had Sam wincing.

"Excuse me?"

"Sam's right," Dean said, staring into his own glass. "It's not safe."

"And, what, you think the three of you will be safer someplace else? Like, say, a motel with a disco theme?"

"Sarah, if you would just listen for a second," Sam began, but she was already pushing up from the couch.

She folded her arms across her chest, chin rising in defiance.

"No, Sam. You listen. I'm not stupid. I know you wouldn't have come here if you had other options. Better options."

"Sarah—"

"Don't. Sam. Don't pull that bullshit with me. I know you never meant to come back. The fact that you did means you were out of choices. Now, does the whole sleepwalking with cutlery incident have me a little freaked? Hell, yes. But I'm not a coward. I'm going to help you and Dean save this little girl because . . . because it's what I want. And before you say something presumptuous or insulting about why I'm doing it, I'll tell you that it's not about you, not about the fact that we kissed once a lifetime ago or that I wouldn't mind doing it again." She hesitated, drawing in a breath that wasn't at all shaky, before continuing. "Now, I'm going to change my clothes, and when I get back we're gonna decide what to do. Please help yourself to another drink."

She turned on her heel, the belt of her sweater jacket trailing in her wake. They watched her go, slack-jawed, and Dean let out a low whistle before leaning forward to refill his glass.

"Hey, Sam?"

"I know, I know. I should marry her."

"You had your chance. Now I might marry her."

Sam snorted, tried to sober as much as possible with hundred-dollar whiskey coursing through his veins.

"Do you think we should stay, Dean?" he asked after a few moments of drinking in companionable silence.

Dean turned his glass carefully, studying the amber glow of the whiskey in the dim lamplight.

"I think Sarah's right. Ain't like we've got a lot of options here, Sam."

"I might have an idea," Sam said carefully.

He could feel the pieces fitting together in his brain, easy like the Ikea furniture he and Jess picked out hours after signing the lease on their little apartment. Insert screw A in slot B. There was definitely a good chance of someone getting screwed here.

Sam laughed, a hard, harsh sound, and Dean lifted his head. Sam watched shadows play across the planes and lines of his brother's face; he smiled. Most of the time, Dean was just Dean, as constant in Sam's world as the change of days. Barring those months after Broward County (another lifetime now) and eight minutes in a field in South Dakota, Sam had never known a world without Dean, and judging him objectively was pretty much impossible. But sometimes, like now, Sam couldn't help thinking that Dean was beautiful. He didn't remember Mary outside pictures, but maybe she'd looked like Dean, a little.

"We'd need some things," Sam said slowly, "and a place we wouldn't be disturbed."

"I'm willing to try almost anything at this point," Dean said, sounding more desperate than Sam could remember.

"You won't like it," Sam told him, figuring he might as well state that up front.

Dean snorted, raised his glass in a mockery of a toast.

"Gotta be better than one of my plans, right?"

--

"I'd like to go on record saying this is possibly the _dumbest_ idea you've ever had, Sam."

"Seconded," Sarah said, "And I haven't known you as long as Dean has."

"Trust me," Dean said, "it's goddamn crazy." He paused in his pacing, turning to meet Sam's gaze across the room. "Only problem is, it just might work."

--

"No. No, Sam."

Outside on Sarah's lawn. White fence glowing in the moonlight and the grass dew-damp under their feet.

"Gimme one good reason why not."

"I'm older and I fucking say so. It should be me."

"That makes no sense, Dean, and you know it. The whole point, the whole reason we're doing this is because I can—"

"I know why we're doing it, Sam."

Softer now, forgiving. "Then why are you arguing with me, man?"

Dean's fingers, thrusting through his short hair.

"Sam. Jesus, Sam."

"It has to be me, man. If there's a chance we can learn something we didn't know, find some way of helping her . . . "

Dean said nothing, glared helplessly.

"I think I get why you always tried so hard to . . . " Sam trailed off on a huff of breath that hung in the air a second before dissipating. "I need to keep her safe, Dean."

"Yeah, Sam." Tired, so damn weary. "I know you do."

And so do you, Sam finished silently.

"Plus, you know," Sam deadpanned, waited for Dean to meet his gaze, "I'm taller so it should definitely be me."

--

Sam tried to insist that Dean take the first sleeping shift, but Dean just shook his head, barked out a short laugh.

"Trust me, dude. I'm not sleepin' anytime soon."

So Sam spent a couple hours drifting off and jump-starting awake with his cheek pressed to the cool leather of the couch and his brain spinning. Finally he just rolled to his feet, stumbled bleary-eyed into the hall to relieve Dean. He stopped short at the sound of voices, Sarah's feminine tone strong and even, a counterpart to Dean's rough, raw whispers. Sam leaned into the wall, listening.

"—shouldn't have grabbed her so hard—"

"She was holding a meat cleaver, Dean. And, from what you and Sam have told me, possibly being controlled by someone . . . or something . . . that made her a lot scarier than your average seven year old."

"We don't know that. The fuck was I thinking? 'S a little girl."

Sarah made a tsking sound, and when she spoke again her tone was firm.

"We don't know anything, except that tonight could have happened a lot of different ways. Someone could have gotten hurt—"

"Someone did."

"Seriously hurt. Something more permanent than a hairline fracture. Layla could have injured herself with that knife, which, let's not fail to remember, I was the one to leave out."

Dean's voice cutting in, a quick protest.

"No way is any of this your fault, Sarah."

"She could have hurt herself," Sarah said stubbornly. "Or me. Or Sam, or you. She brought the knife into your room, Dean. We don't know what she was going to do with it."

"I broke her arm." Sam could hear the thin broken way Dean's voice pushed out the words like they were jagged glass. "I fucking broke her _arm_."

And then there was the hoarse noise of oxygen being sucked in followed by harsh, racking sobbing.

Sam slumped against the wall, listening as Dean broke down to a woman Sam kissed once, another lifetime ago, instead of to him.

--

The painkillers the ER docs prescribed accomplished the added task of keeping Layla out cold most of the morning. Keeping an ear peeled from the kitchen, Sam went through a stack of books, scribbling a list of things they might need. Dean joined him after a shower, sat down at the table and scanned the list before nodding an approval. His _looks good, dude_ wasn't all that reassuring; Sam still felt like he was pulling the whole thing out of his ass.

Sarah volunteered to do a supply run as soon as the stores opened. She got back around ten, looking smug.

"Chalk and candles. Sand, acacia leaves," she said, pulling the items from the paper bag.

"What about the oil of Abramelin?" Dean asked. He was reading over Sam's shoulder, something Sam found annoying and oddly endearing.

"Stop and Shop was all out," Sarah said dryly. "But. I went by the library on the way back, and it turns out there's a recipe for making your own on Wikipedia."

"Wiki-what?" Dean asked, expression blank.

Sam grinned. "You find all the ingredients?" he asked, and Sarah unfolded a printout from her back pocket and passed it over the counter.

"All there in the bag," Sarah said, a little smugly. Sam read it, smiled. It ought to work.

"You did good," he told her softly.

"It sucks that you're not into handsome guys," Dean said. He leaned in to nudge Sarah's arm with his. " 'Cause I'd totally be up for it." He winked, and Sarah laughed.

Sam wondered how it was Dean got away with making horribly offensive comments. He supposed it was part of Dean's—Christ—charm.

"Okay," Dean said, rising. "I'm gonna pick up the last of the stuff. You guys can fight over who gets to be Top Chef."

"Dean, hold up a second." Sam raised a meaningful brow. "We still need to do that thing."

"What . . . oh. Yeah, I'll see what I can find."

"Just find something that'll do it. I don't care about the . . . aftereffects."

Sarah was glancing from one to the other, her expression suspicious.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

They exchanged looks, and Sarah made a small sound of displeasure.

"Uh uh, you two don't get to keep secrets. Not now. Tell me what this is about."

Dean jerked his head—_go ahead, dude._ Sam sighed, and caught his t-shirt around the waist before dragging it over his head.

"What is that?" Sarah said, her hand halting just short of tracing the symbol etched into his skin.

"Protection," Dean explained. "Keeps anything outside from getting in."

"The problem is," Sam continued, "it's also gonna prevent the ritual from working. Unless we get rid of it."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Sarah asked.

"However I have to," Sam said. "If we have to burn it off—"

"I have a friend," Sarah interrupted. "My roommate freshman year of college, she's a plastic surgeon now."

"We need the full moon, which is in three days," Sam said. "We don't have time—"

"Let me call her, okay?" Sarah glanced back and forth between them. "Before you two resort to the home remedy."

--

Sam was hunting for his phone in Dean's jeans when he heard the sound—a soft knocking, not continuous but broken, stopping and starting at random intervals.

Dean was still at the store, Sarah catching a few hours of much-deserved shuteye in her bedroom. At Sam's insistence, she had locked the bedroom door from the inside. Sam figured now was as good a time as any to get this call out of the way. No way would Bobby be comfortable with what Sam and Dean intended to do in three nights' time, but Sam felt honor-bound to inform him of their plans, even if just so Bobby could call them both damn idiots. He knew Dean would rag on Sam for doing it, just like he knew if he didn't call, Dean would probably do it himself.

Crouched on the floor, Sam hesitated, head cocked. It was several seconds more before he realized what the sound was, and when he did realize it he felt his face heat and guilt roll over him in waves. He followed the knocking down the hall until he stood outside Layla's room.

The chain on the door was still secure, the half-circle of salt undisturbed. Sam pressed a hand against the wood and imagined Layla sitting on the other side, holding her broken wrist. He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to breathe through the lump in his throat, hard and painful like he'd swallowed a Jolly Rancher.

He felt Dean's presence at his side before he saw him. Dean's face was windblown, new freckles popping on his nose.

"We need to talk to her," Sam said quietly.

Dean jerked his head in acknowledgment, or agreement, Sam wasn't sure, and reached out to unhook the latch on the chain. He waited for Sam's 'ready' nod before turning the knob.

Sam didn't know what he was expecting. The Layla who entered their room wielding a knife yesterday wasn't the same kid they'd gotten to know these past weeks. Not the same little girl that screamed with delight when Dean chased her around the house, making stupid moaning noises and swaying, nor the one who snuggled up to Sam for story time, her small body fitting just right beneath one of his arms. She wasn't the kid who ate Dean's burnt eggs or Sam's overdone spaghetti without complaint; not the kid who fell asleep in the Impala to lullabies of AC/DC and the two of them bickering. The girl last night hadn't been Layla, but Sam was pretty sure she hadn't been possessed, either. He didn't know who or what it was that came at them with a butcher's knife, and the not knowing scared the hell out of him.

Whatever he was expecting it wasn't what he got—Layla perched on the edge of the makeshift bed, bare toes dragging on the carpet. She was wearing one of Sarah's college t-shirts, and Sam remembered that Sarah had helped her change into it last night because her own pajamas were _blood-stained _from the cut she opened on Dean's arm.

She glanced up when the door opened, her expression full of hurt and confusion.

"You locked me in," she said accusingly.

Sam glanced at Dean, who glanced quickly away. He crossed the room, lowering himself to the bed beside her.

"We had to," Sam said softly. "We didn't know what you'd do if you got out."

Realization turned her eyes into round balls of dark amber.

"You're afraid of me," she said.

Sam flashed Dean a look like, 'You can jump in anytime now.' He stretched out a hand to touch her, push stringy blond hair back from her face, but she jerked away from him. She scrambled across the bed to sit up by the wall, arms hugging her knees.

"Do you remember how you hurt your arm?" Sam asked gently.

She eyed him suspiciously, blinking beneath her bangs. Sam made a mental note that they ought to get her a haircut if they survived the next three days, and that was it, he was officially turning into their father. Or, worse, Dean.

"It's okay," he encouraged.

"You said I tripped," she murmured. "I don't remember falling though."

Dean looked over, a mixture of anger and gratitude coloring his features. Sam stared back, remorseless, daring Dean to say something. Dean clamped his jaw shut and turned away.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sam asked.

"The bogart," she said, and Dean looked up, startled.

"_Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_," Sam said, hiding a smile. "We were reading it before bed. Then what, Layla?"

"I woke up, and I was in you guys' room. I didn't know how I got there. And my arm hurt like a _bitch_."

Sam very deliberately avoided looking at Dean's face.

"Layla, do me a favor. Think back. Do you remember anything weird happening after I left your room, before you fell asleep? Anything that seemed strange or unusual?"

"No." She sighed as though the conversation was boring her a little, and Sam had to remind himself she was only seven and yeah, this was probably a lot boring for her. "I wasn't sleepy when you left so I was gonna read by myself for a while. But then I got really tired all of a sudden, and really warm too, so I laid down and went to sleep."

"What do you mean, warm?" Dean asked, apparently deciding to join the conversation finally. He approached the bed but left a few feet's distance between himself and Layla. "Like the heat was up too high?"

"No, just . . . warm." She shrugged and started picking at her cast. "It's stupid."

"Try us," Sam said, and Layla gave a dramatic-sounding sigh.

"I felt . . . warm and safe. Like somebody wrapped me up in a big soft blanket and was . . . hugging me from the inside." She glanced up, nose wrinkling and cheeks flushed. "I told you it was stupid."

"It's not stupid," Sam said softly. "Was there anything else?"

Layla ran her bottom lip through her teeth and looked from one to the other.

"I did something, didn't I? I made you scared of me. I'm like the things you fight."

"No," Sam said quickly.

"I've fought a lot of things in the dark, and not one of 'em was as pretty as you," Dean assured. "Most of 'em? Damn ugly."

"I'm not a little baby."

Dean coughed and looked surprised.

"I know that," he said.

"I know you don't have to be ugly to be evil. Beautiful things can be evil too."

Sam shook his head.

"Layla, you're not evil—"

"I know something really bad's happening," she murmured. "Isn't it."

Sam knew what to say here, had been on the receiving end of this too many times not to. These words were so familiar they ached. Lying on foreign sheets in a room that smelled like strangers. Dad on a hunt and Dean breathing on the other side of the mattress. _Shouldn't he be back by now, Dean?_ Dean's whispered assurances wrapped up in _Shut up_ and _Go to sleep, Sam_. More comforting than if he'd been gentle. Later, when Dad was gone for good, Dean kept making promises. _Nothing's wrong, never while I'm alive, don't worry about it, Sam_. Sam had stopped believing his big brother was a superhero around the time he graduated elementary school but some part of him still thought, if Dean said something, it must be so. It was enough. In the end, it was enough that Dean said it.

"Do you trust us?" Sam asked.

Layla blinked and nodded finally.

"That's good," he said. "Because Dean and I, we're going to keep you safe. I promise. As long as we're around, nothing bad's going to happen to you, Layla."

She studied him with big brown eyes, and he was afraid she was going to see right through him. Call him a liar and tell him to go away. But after a long moment she just nodded again, and when he looked into her eyes he thought the fear was a little lessened maybe.

Dean was watching the scene with an odd expression on his face, soft and appraising at the same time.

"Can we have pancakes for breakfast?" Layla asked. "I'm starving. And maybe after we can watch Goonies again, Dean?"

On the way to the kitchen, Layla stepped right over the salt line neither of them had remembered to break.

--

The Winchester Brothers' crash course in surviving the paranormal. Day One: Hand to Hand.

"I'm sorry," Sam said for what must have been the fifteenth time this hour. By now Sarah must be feeling it, new muscles cramping and blood rushing to the surface of her skin in blue-green bruises. He offered a hand to help her up.

"Sam Winchester, you are the worst date ever."

He forgot himself for a second and was offended.

"What? Why?"

Sarah pushed a section of damp dark hair back from her eyes, grinned.

"Hmm, let's see. So far, I've almost gotten my throat slit by a painting and acted as unofficial babysitter for your and Dean's unofficial ward. Toss in a little physical violence . . . "

"Oh, that's it."

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers to her body and lifting her off the ground. She tried not to laugh and failed, and Sam started to laugh to, and for a moment he was back at Stanford, goofing around with Jess before they started dating. There was an ache in remembering—soft hair, lips in the dark, miss you Jess—but mostly it was a light feeling filling him up. A younger, more ignorant Sam, who while maybe not devoid of responsibility was definitely enjoying shirking it for a while.

He was still laughing when Sarah worked an elbow loose and hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him. She wrapped an ankle around his and they both went down, Sarah on top of him.

He blinked up into the sun, temporarily blinded, and when his eyes adjusted he saw Dean watching him from the back porch. He expected to see . . . he wasn't sure what he expected. Jealousy? In Sam's dreams, maybe. But Dean was smiling, like all he wanted in the world was currently rolling around in manicured grass under a bright June sky.

--

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Hey." He unbuttoned his shirt, folded it in half absently and laid it over a chair. "You tried."

"Reya's visiting her parents in Paris. Otherwise, I know she'd have helped us out."

Sam shrugged. He felt sort of stupid standing half naked in the middle of Sarah's kitchen. The window was open, and a light breeze wafted in, made the chimes hanging in the windowsill tremble.

"Don't worry, okay? It's not even the first time I've had one of these burned off. And Dean doesn't need to get the whole thing, just disrupt the symbol."

Sarah looked down at the floor, and when she lifted her face again it was perfectly composed, any trace of concern or pity vanished. Sam thought not for the first time that Sarah would have made a good hunter.

"Is there something I can do?" she said.

Sam could see Dean hovering in the doorway, his face expressionless, though the set of his shoulders gave him away.

"Take Layla out into the backyard for a few minutes, okay?" He set his jaw. "I'd rather she didn't hear this."

--

"Sure you don't wanna switch parts, Sammy? My Latin sucks, dude. You might end up downloading, I don't know. A golden retriever."

Sam didn't bother asking what a golden retriever would be doing in Hell, just stepped over the circle of paint and sat down in the chair. Waited. Dean gave him that look, the one like Sam was five, fifteen, twenty-five, and Dean wanted to lock him up someplace safe. Finally, he came to kneel at Sam's feet, started looping the rope around Sam's ankles.

"Tighter, man," Sam said softly, and Dean obliged, tugging until Sam felt the knots digging into bone. Dean did his hands next, slapping a pair of cop-issue cuffs around Sam's wrists. Sam refrained from asking where Dean had procured the handcuffs, and for what purpose, but Dean answered anyway, with a suggestive brow waggle that had Sam's eyes rolling.

"Kinky," Sam said tonelessly, and Dean just smirked.

He made an apologetic sound in the back of his throat before throwing a length of rope around Sam's waist, binding his arms to his torso and his entire upper body to the chair back. "Good?"

Sam used all his strength to pull against the bonds, and then nodded, satisfied.

"We're good. You ready?"

Dean fixed him with a look. _Not even close._

But he stepped out of the circle and picked up the notebook from the table. He read to himself, lips silently shaping the words.

"You ever gonna learn to read without moving your lips?" Sam teased, and Dean glanced up from the page, mouth opening to answer when Sarah walked in.

Her arms were full of candles, and when she drew up short she almost dropped a black taper, fumbled to hold onto it. She stood very still, watching Sam with serious eyes.

"You okay?" Dean asked, moving to take the candles from her.

"Fine. For a second this just reminded me of a date I had last month." She dug in her pockets for a matchbook before adding, "That was a joke, guys."

"I know," Sam and Dean said together, then exchanged matching looks of disgust at having spoken in unison.

Sarah followed Dean around the perimeter of the circle, lighting candles when he positioned them.

"Layla in her room?" Sam asked while Dean knelt down to assemble the altar.

Sarah stared at her hands.

"I gave her two of the painkillers the doctor prescribed with lunch. I read to her until she fell asleep, and then I locked her in her room and put salt across the threshold like you showed me. Some babysitter, huh."

"You did good," Sam said softly, and Sarah looked up.

"It'll all be worth it if this works, right?" She hesitated, as though this was a delicate subject, before adding, "Um, how do we know this will work?"

Dean emptied the rest of the sand into the bowl and stood, brushing his fingers on his jeans.

"Don't," Dean admitted. "Sam pieced the ritual together from a few sources—books, memories, goddamn inspiration. Pretty freakin' impressive either way." He glanced up long enough to meet Sam's gaze, and Sam flushed, seeing the pride beneath the fear in Dean's eyes.

"Our dad summoned a demon to him once," Sam said quietly. "Some of the ingredients are things he used."

"Of course," Dean said, "what we're doing is a little different. Demon we're after ain't walking around eating Happy Meals. She's in Hell."

"Because we put her there," Sam said.

"Now the thing about demons in the pit," Dean continued, "They don't exactly have much holding 'em together. Pretty much just big-ass clouds of smoke. Have to possess a body to walk and talk, which is where Sam comes in. We're gonna draw the bitch outta hell and into Sam's body."

"Because we're just that crazy," Sam finished.

Dean smirked and reached for the notebook. Sam knew he was checking the words again, the ones Sam had checked and rechecked. He rolled his eyes.

"Sarah," Sam began. "I need you to do what we talked about."

"I've been thinking about that, Sam. What if my being down here, with Dean, could help in some way? Could prevent things from going wrong in the first place?"

Dean hesitated, tongue working his lower lip. He glanced at Sam, but Sam shook his head firmly.

"I—we—need you upstairs. Dean." He raised a brow, and Dean sighed, crossed to the table. He returned with a knife, which he pressed hilt-first into Sarah's hand.

"This blade'll kill anything," Dean said quietly. "Use it if you have to."

Sarah gave a jerky nod, and started to go. She hesitated then turned back, stepped over the circle and cupped a hand around Sam's chin and brushed a kiss across his lips.

"Good luck," she told him.

There was an awkward moment after she left. Sam coughed loudly, and after a second Dean stepped forward. He waited for Sam to meet his gaze, to nod his approval, before giving a jerky nod of his own**. **Then he lit the match on the side of his hand and threw it in the bowl.

"Hold on, Sammy," he said quietly and began reading the words Sam had written.

--

He had been sort of hoping to pass out. Stupid—Sam had never been that lucky. He felt everything, felt the demon invade his body, forcing her way down his throat in an endless flume of hot smoke that had him gagging.

For the first few seconds, he was in shock, everything hurting too badly to move. It was all he could do to cope with the pain. She wasn't making it easy for him either. Fuck, she was pissed, Sam could feel her fury, her want to make him suffer. He felt like his internal organs were boiling and it was a fight to wipe his mind enough to form thought.

_Wait. Please._

But she was rabid, furious, and he could feel her rage like teeth. He let out a groan, he was losing, fading. Then his chest was on fire, and he screamed, but there was relief, too, she was releasing her grip on him somewhat. One of them, Sam wasn't sure which, opened his eyes, and he saw Dean grinning down at him, wagging a flask of holy water in front of his face.

"Hey, baby," Dean drawled lazy and smooth, and Sam knew it wasn't just his brother's aptitude for hunting and killing that made him such a hated figure among the demonic community. "Thanks for coming."

--

Sam listened, and waited, trusting Dean to keep the teeth from snapping shut again.

"Look at me," Dean murmured, lips curling around the words. "Yeah, that's right. Check out this handsome face."

Sam felt his throat struggling to swallow, mouth garnering moisture enough to speak.

Somebody said the words, "Dean Winchester," and it was a few seconds before Sam realized it had been he who said them. Or rather, the thing inside him. The demon they killed back in Georgia.

Dean smirked, a cold-eyed expression, and shoved his face close enough that Sam could scent the coffee on his breath, which temporarily overpowered the taste of sulfur coating Sam's tongue.

"In the flesh, bitch," Dean offered, and the thing inside Sam snorted.

"I'd watch the language, sugar, as I'm wearing your brother's."

Dean made an incredulous noise and somehow managed to get even further into Sam's face.

"You've heard of Sam, right? Reputation kinda precedes him. Anti-Christ an all that? I think he can handle one demon, especially one we already wasted." He pronounced the last word slowly, tongue savoring it in a way that was downright sexual.

"I'm camped out in your brother's body. If I want, I can liquefy all of Sam's organs."

Dean's hand was in his hair almost before she—Sam was getting a headache trying to keep track of pronouns—finished the sentence. Dean yanking on his hair didn't help things much.

"Bitch, you even try—"

Sam felt himself jerk forward as every muscle in his body went tense at the same time. She was trying to pull free from the bonds. A second later he was reeling from the backhanded slap Dean delivered to his face. Sam had a brief flash of their conversation days earlier. _No, Dean. I'm gonna be the one who gets possessed. Don't try to change my mind. _

She was laughing in Dean's face.

"We miss you downstairs, handsome. Although, way I hear it, you went from being Hell's bitch to being Sammy's."

The demon grinned big and bright as the color receded from Dean's cheeks. She chuckled as the pain pulsed in Dean's eyes before a dangerous glint replaced it.

"I should smack that mouth of yours again," Dean growled.

"Gonna break Sam's strong, distinguished jaw? Rumor is you want that particular bone of your brother's in working order, Dean-o."

Dean said nothing. Sam's mouth parted, his tongue darting out to moisten his bottom lip. His lips were forming a response when she suddenly paused.

Oh, fuck, Sam thought. No, no—

"She's here." Voice wondering, marveling over it. "Son of a bitch, you've had her this whole time."

"Excuse me?" Dean said.

When the demon spoke again, her voice was clear and strident.

"I wanna see my daughter."

Dean went still.

"What'd you just say?"

"My daughter. My child." Sam's neck arched forward, veins straining against sweat-slick flesh. "Bring her to me. Now."

Dean leaned in close, his fist closing around a hunk of Sam's hair.

"You don't have a daughter," he growled.

Sam's memories of this were too fresh, too near to the surface. She kept pushing, peeling away the layers of his thoughts. He stopped fighting, let her take and take.

"I did until you took me from her," she said. "The child you found in the basement of that house, Dean. Hiding under the pipes, filthy, frightened. You were going to burn the place to the ground but Sam insisted you take a last walk around to look for survivors. You found my daughter."

Dean's lips twisted into something too cold to be called a smile.

"Somebody skipped you when they were handing out sanity pills, didn't they? She's not yours, bitch. You're not human. Layla—the kid—belonged to Rick and Maddy Omera, two hunters you murdered. That ring any bells, you demonic piece of—?"

"Layla," she spat from Sam's mouth, as though the word itself had a bitter taste to it, "nee Ryan Omera. That girl died in April of 2008. The child who took her place was named Ailo, and she was my daughter. Now I want to see her. Or I squeeze your brother's heart until it pops like a balloon."

Dean shook his head, jaw quivering with barely restrained fury.

"Sam even feels a twinge of heartburn, and I'll pull you out of him so fast, you'll be back in the pit before you can say, 'Hellhounds are nipping at my ankles.'"

Dean leaned in and curled a hand under Sam's chin, forcing the demon inside to meet his eyes. Sam's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

"I know you're not the brains of the operation, Dean. But you must realize the danger you're courting."

"I've courted worse," Dean said with a humorless laugh. "Now I brought you here to play Let's Make a Deal. You tell me what you did to that kid during the year you held her. And in return I don't send you on a one-way trip back to the pit."

Sam felt his knees spreading as much as the ropes allowed. He slumped back in the chair, head tilting carelessly.

"You must think I'm a fool," the demon in him sneered. "You'd never let me go free."

"Heh, you're right about that." Dean shrugged. "Can't take the chance you'd come after us."

"Aw, Dean." She sounded almost like she was flirting with him. "You know it's not a chance."

Dean smiled, crossed to the table with slow, deliberate steps.

"Still. I want her free from you. So I'm willing to offer you a deal." Dean reached behind his back, and a moment later he was laying the Colt down on the table. "'Stead of sending you back to writhe for an eternity, I'll deliver you into oblivion."

He watched Sam's face.

"Okay, so it ain't a great deal. But it's gotta be better than burning. And I can say that with some degree of authority on the subject."

"Nice try," she laughed. "I'm not dumb enough to believe you'd put a bullet in your own brother's skull."

"You're right about that," Dean agreed. "I wouldn't shoot my _brother_."

Sam's brow shot up.

"Well, well. How the sanctimonious have fallen," the demon in him observed.

"You spend some time in the pit, everything looks different. I got a little girl upstairs who isn't ever gonna have a normal life unless I make a choice I don't like all that much. Fact is, she deserves a shot at normal, at a life. And another fact. There's plenty of people out there who don't. Don't deserve to live, even." Dean turned away so his face was in shadows. "Wasn't too hard for me and Sam to find just one candidate for oblivion."

"One year out of Hell and you're playing God. Quite the promotion."

"So we got a deal then?" Dean asked, turning back.

She cocked Sam's head to the side, studying Dean through narrowed eyes.

"Demons aren't so different from humans, Dean. You should know that by now. We want the same things. Companionship, family. Children."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Dean said with a groan.

"What about this is so hard for you to believe? That we would want a child to raise in our image? To teach and to love. Unlike with you humans, we can't achieve the miracle of life with a few sweaty moments of pleasure. It takes more than a casual fuck for us to become parents. Sterility is one of our curses. A punishment bestowed upon our kind to ensure that we live lives of loneliness."

Dean looked murderous, ready to draw blood. Sam couldn't exactly blame him.

"So you slaughter a couple of decent people and steal their kid?" Dean asked, voice dangerously soft. "Play some sick game of house with her for a year?"

"Decent? The Omeras killed my mother, along with plenty more of us—"

"Your mother?" Dean interrupted. "You just said demons can't have kids. What's a'matter, can't keep your story straight?"

"That doesn't mean we don't form familial groups! That we don't care about one another. Even—yes, Dean—love. You see, Lilith was a mother too. She loved children, their innocence and their . . . adaptability. Lilith knew what it was like to have a child, and to lose one. She knew the importance of having something to love, which is why she gave me the Omeras' child. To make up for the loss of _my_ mother."

"Oh yeah. You're totally sane."

"Don't tell me you haven't done your reading? No? Well let me enlighten you. Humans have known about Lilith for a long time, Dean. In the olden days, your people would draw protective circles around their beds, or use amulets, to ward her off. When a child laughed in her sleep, it was believed that Lilith was with her. Legend had it that tapping the child on the nose would make Lilith leave. What can I say? You guys are gullible."

Dean smirked and started to turn away. Sam knew what was coming but could do nothing to brace himself. He felt the full impact when Dean backhanded him.

The demon growled, swearing as she spit a circle of Sam's blood onto the floor.

"Don't think I didn't appreciate the history lesson," Dean assured. "But do we got a deal or what?"

"You gonna kiss Sammy's bruises later?"

"Tell me what you did to her."

"I wanna see my daughter," she spat back.

"Not a chance."

"Exorcisms are tricky things, Dean, and word in the Pit is your Latin isn't all that. Maybe Sammy should gnaw off his own tongue while you're tripping over yours."

"No wait!" Dean said, fear creeping into his tone.

"Dean, don't!"

Sam didn't know if he broke through or if she let him. In all probability it was the latter. But for a moment he could control his own limbs again, could have moved even, if he wasn't tied to a chair.

"Sammy?"

"Don't give her what she wants," Sam begged. "I . . . I want my daughter, Dean," and just like that she was pulling Sam back, tucking him away somewhere he wouldn't be a burden. But this time she was careless, too quick. She left the window cracked, and suddenly he could see into the past, into the demon's memory.

Layla, or Ailo . . . she was all the demon could think about. He could feel the weight of her in his arms—her body small but sturdy, warm with life. She was unconscious, or asleep, her head lolling on his shoulder as his boots (too high, not his) swept over a bed of pine needles. He was in the woods by the Omera house, making his way to the highway on the other side. It was dark, no moon, and several times he tripped over upraised roots or low branches. At one point a high branch sliced across his face, cutting a shallow gash into his forehead. He used his free hand to wipe away the blood, held the child tighter and kept moving. So still, not a sound. When he heard the scream, he thought it was an owl, glanced wildly around with eyes that no longer obeyed his brain's commands.

From somewhere very far away, he heard Dean's voice—the one he used when things had gone horribly wrong. "Is that you, Sarah?"

Sam forced his way back to the present, to the basement, watched Dean eyeing the staircase. The three of them—Dean, Sam, the demon—held their breaths, waiting.

She clambered down the stairs and stopped short at the base, one hand lingering on the rail. Even in Sam's current state, a demon camped out in his body, he knew something wasn't right with her.

"Layla," Dean said, "where's Sarah?"

Layla bit her lip. Her hair was coming out of the neat ponytail Sarah had made, blond falling into mouth, sticking to her face where it was wet with tears. She glanced down, and for the first time Sam noticed the knife she held in one hand. Ruby's knife.

"I took this away from her." She held it up like evidence, and Sam noticed that the tip was dry. So either Layla hadn't used it . . . or she'd used the knife and wiped off the blood. "She tried to hurt me with it. I know you said she was your friend, Sam, but I think something's wrong with . . . "

She trailed off, as though noticing for the first time that Sam was tied to a chair. Then she looked into the demon's eyes. She sucked out a startled breath that curled into a whimper.

"You're not Sam," she said, stating a fact.

"That's going around," Dean muttered, voice hoarse. "Layla, I need you to give me that knife."

"Ailo," the demon intoned, and for the first time its voice betrayed the emotion Sam felt swirling inside him. Them. "Oh, baby."

Layla made a sound like a sob.

"I'm not her, okay?"

"Layla," Dean began, "Give me the knife now."

Back in the woods, but Sam could see lights through the trees. Car headlights. He stumbled up the incline and into the road, waved his free arm wildly. A dark minivan swerved, sped off. Curses pouring from his lips, old words in unfamiliar tongues. At last an ancient looking Buick ground its breaks, skidded to a halt in the middle of the street. Sam hugged the girl to his chest and jogged toward the car.

"You okay, ma'am?"

"No," Sam said, breathless. "I need a ride."

Warm in the backseat, heat blowing through the vents. The driver flicked on the overhead. An old man, gray hair and too lonely-looking to be anyone's grandfather.

"Hey," he said, "your daughter, she's bleeding."

Sam looked down at the girl, his, swept his hand along the red stain coating her nightgown.

"It's not hers."

"What?"

The man's arterial blood, wet and spilling over his fingers. Sticky hands steering the car as he drove them south.

One minute Sam was in a car in Maine, the next he was back in the chair, the demon straining against the ropes holding his body in place.

"Ailo." Half command, half plea. "Come here."

Sam fought against the invisible ropes keeping him prisoner in his own body, keeping him from speaking. He wanted to scream, _Stay back._

Layla was crying now, silent tears sluicing over her nose.

"No," she whispered.

"Ailo!"

Dean's voice, pleading: "Layla, just walk to me."

"Take another step toward her and I'll hurt Sam, Dean." The demon twisted Sam's lips into a smile. "Bring me the knife, Ailo."

Sam met Layla's eyes, which were wide with terror, and suddenly he was back in Maine, back at the house.

He woke up when the sun climbed high enough to shine through the skylight in the loft bedroom. It was morning, cartoon-early, and Sam felt amazing, safe and warm like he hadn't since he was five or six and still young enough to believe whatever Dad and Dean told him.

He didn't know whose head he was in, but it wasn't the demon's anymore.

He got up and went downstairs in his bare feet, mind full of _Mom_ and _breakfast_ and something else just beginning to push at the edges of his consciousness. The bedroom door was open, hall light sliding along the floor and across the big bed in the middle of the room. He hesitated in the doorway, confused, cold starting to creep up from his bare toes for the first time. And then she was there.

Beautiful and young, with dark hair curling around her face, green eyes gazing at him from a face shaped like a heart. Sam recognized her from somewhere. Georgia. The abandoned house. Crouching in a room with sigils on the walls.

"Is this what you're looking for?" the demon asked him, voice heavy, reverent almost.

She pressed the knife into his small hand, and it seemed to fit there like it was made to. Sam turned around and went into the bedroom while the demon backed into the shadows, joined another figure. A small dark figure that looked suspiciously like a little girl.

He stood at the foot of the big bed, and waited. Finally, the bathroom door opened, and a woman emerged, and his brain said _mom_, but he didn't feel it, didn't feel anything until the warmth filled him again, stretching from his toes to the ends of his hair. It was like someone wrapped him in a blanket. Hugged him from the inside.

Layla's head, he realized. That's where he was now. And this was Layla's mother, the late Maddy Omera.

"You're up early," the woman said, rubbing a towel over her head. She whipped it away, and her blond hair fell forward, choppy in places, like she was growing it out after a long time. "Daddy's still asleep."

Sam glanced at the bed, and at the man asleep under the sheet, which rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. Rick Omera. _Dad_, Sam thought, but he felt nothing.

"Hey." Maddy knelt down, and Sam could see her brown eyes and the freckles on her nose. "Everything okay, Ryan?"

And Sam tried to stop it, he tried as hard as he could, but he was years too late. The knife plunged through the V where Maddy Omera's robe gaped open, passed through nightgown and flesh, cutting deep. Sam tried to pull his hand back but it struck again, arching with expertise no six-year-old hand had a right to.

He rounded the bed, and the next part felt almost like anticlimax. One blow this time, perfectly aimed through the sheet. He could practically hear the silence when the heartbeats stopped. When Layla killed her father.

Sam left the room, was curled up on the living room sofa before he noticed how wet his hands were, or how cold he felt all of a sudden. Whatever presence was inside him was gone now. And then the dark-haired woman was there, bundling him into a blanket, her face pale and beautiful.

"My daughter," she murmured, "my Ailo," and her hands were soft and soothing in his hair. He had flashes of the woods, the car stopping for them on the dark deserted road, the gurgling sound the driver made when the demon slit his throat.

Sam wanted to throw up but didn't have the control over his gag reflex. He had accomplished their goal finally, discovered the truth. They thought she'd witnessed her parents' deaths when in reality she'd been an active participant. Lilith used her body—Layla's own hands—to take her parents' lives, before handing the little girl over to the demon.

Back in the basement, Sam cursed both of them to hell and hoped Lilith heard him somehow.

"I wasn't the one who killed the Omeras," the demon protested, and Sam knew she was talking to him and not Dean.

Dean's eyes were sliding from Sam to Layla, still clutching the knife to her chest with her good hand.

"Granted she may have had a little help," the demon drawled. "That little girl witnessed the murder of _my_ mother at the hands of the Rick and Maddy Omera. So she became my daughter and avenged her grandmother's death. Kind of fitting, don't you think?"

_No_, Sam tried to say, but nothing came out.

The demon was bucking against the restraints, and Sam's head felt like it was going to roll off his neck with the effort.

"Ailo, come here," the demon commanded, voice high and straining now. "Come to me, baby."

And it was like something inside Layla broke, and she crept forward sobbing.

"Layla, don't!" Dean shouted and stepped over the circle.

The demon threw him across the room with enough force that he went careening into the wall opposite, before sliding to the floor with a sickening thud. Dean took a moment getting to his feet, head shaking from the impact, and that was the delay she needed.

The demon extended Sam's cuffed hands to curve around Layla's head. Sam could feel Layla's hair, soft and damp, beneath his hand. He cradled her skull in one palm, marveling at the fact that she was his. His, hers. The child of a dead woman named Maddy Omera. Sam couldn't see the line anymore, but he felt his eyes fill with someone else's tears.

"Stab me," the demon whispered. "Do it."

His vision waterlogged, Sam watched Dean swaying to his feet, stumbling forward with a frantic "No!" on his lips.

Layla had stopped sobbing. She stared up at Sam with huge eyes, frightened and pleading. Mournful eyes, far too old for seven.

"I don't wanna hurt anyone else," she said softly.

"Ailo, look at me," the demon instructed. "Look at my eyes. Do it. Do it, baby. Do it, Ryan."

Layla sniffed, sucking snot through her nose, and wiped her face on her sleeve.

"I can't," she whispered, "I'm sorry."

And Sam believed her. With a detached sort of interest, he watched her hand, small and steady, raise the blade before plunging it down and into his belly. He felt the knife slicing its way through skin and tissue, but the pain was vague, dull and far away. His lap felt warm, and he realized it was his own blood, seeping through his jeans.

Sam didn't care about any of those feelings though because, far stronger, was the feeling of the demon letting go, letting him go. She was dying and declining to take Sam with her.

"No," he groaned. "Not yet."

Then Dean was on him, pushing Layla aside and grabbing the knife, using the still-wet blade to slice through Sam's restraints. Fingers fumbled with the key, working the cuffs open.

Sam hissed as he slid from the chair in a controlled fall, Dean's arms tight around him.

"Sammy?"

"Wrists hurt," Sam ground out.

A soft expulsion of breath. Dean's voice, disbelieving.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"She—she let me. I wasn't there yet, but she let me . . . she let me see what she did to her, to Layla, over the last year. Why would she do that, Dean?"

The bodies in the house in Georgia, and others along the coast. The demon was sacrificing them, feeding Layla their blood along with her own. Trying to make Layla special, make her _hers._ Sam could see the rituals, the words, as though they were inked over his corneas.

"She—the demon—she fed Layla blood. Tried to change her. Wasn't done though, not yet."

"You're bleeding to death, Sam. Do you think you could shut up for five minutes?"

"Don't think it's that bad," Sam said objectively, realizing as he said the words that they were true. "Go check Sarah."

"Sam—" Exasperation, and something like relief that Sam felt up to issuing orders.

"She could be hurt, Dean."

"Seriously, Sam, if I have to gag you . . . "

Sam's muscle control wasn't a hundred percent, but he managed to raise one hand, slap his palm lightly against Dean's cheek.

"Dean," he murmured.

"Excuse me."

They both turned at the voice.

Layla's hands were red, and Sam wanted to search her for injuries before he realized it was his blood. She was obviously scared but seemed otherwise unharmed, and Sam felt his body go limp with relief.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean was telling her. "Everything's gonna be—"

"Dean," Sam began, a frown starting to form. "I don't think—"

"My name's Ryan Jane Omera," she interrupted, voice quaking like she was making a valiant effort not to cry. "I'm six years old and I live at 14 Acadia Drive in Portland Maine. My telephone number is 555 818 9032. Can you take me home or to the nearest police station, please?"

--

Sam's first interaction with Ryan Omera had happened under somewhat strange circumstances:

"Sam, are you awake? Dammit, Sam, you better fucking stay awake."

From across the room, Sam watched Dean do a quick concussion test on Sarah. Follow my finger and the like.

"Who's president of the United States?" Dean asked.

"Barak Obama."

"And the one before that?"

"George Bush. Oh God, I think I'm gonna throw up."

"He has that effect on people," Dean muttered, but he pulled a wastebasket over in time to shove under Sarah's head.

Sam tuned out the noise of Sarah retching, letting his gaze slide over to the little girl sitting on the floor beside the couch where Sam was currently sprawled.

"It's okay," Sam said. "I know this is . . . a lot. But everything's gonna be all right. I promise." He meant it, damn it. He would make sure of it.

She mumbled something, and Sam had to ask her to repeat herself.

"Who are you?" she asked, louder this time.

"I'm Sam," Sam said. "And that's my . . . that's Dean."

There was any number of reasons he could have failed to mention Dean was his brother. He was still shaking with the aftereffects of possession. He was cold and feverish and possibly bleeding to death. But Sam knew exactly why he didn't tell Ryan that one fact, and it wasn't due to any of those things.

"Sam?" Dean called, his voice growing closer along with the sound of his bootsteps on Sarah's hardwood floors. "Tell me you're awake and breathing so I don't have to kill you."

"Quit your whining, I'm alive. Sarah have a concussion?"

"Yeah. I don't know why I bothered with that president crap; she's got a bruise on her forehead the size of Texas." Dean knocked Sam's hands out of the way, resumed holding pressure on the wound himself. "Help's on the way. Hold on, okay?"

"Jerk," Sam said, eyes sliding closed and mouth curving into a smile.

"Bitch," Dean said, and squeezed Sam's hand.

--

He slept a lot the first few days. He didn't think it was just the stomach wound. Demon possession was surprisingly exhausting.

Dean hadn't made him go to a hospital, though it was touch and go for a while. In the end, he only consented to home care when Sarah, clear-thinking despite the concussion, made a call to an old friend, who agreed to drive out in the middle of the night.

Martha was a pediatrician with big, no-nonsense hands and a bag of tricks. She might have known Sarah's mother, but Sam wasn't clear on this point. To be honest, he didn't care beyond the fact that it would keep him out of the hospital—they didn't need the attention a second emergency room trip would spawn, nor could they leave Ryan alone. More importantly, Sam had work to do, and a hospital visit would have delayed that. The demon had given him the tools but he still had to apply them to the task.

Even with Dean helping, it took Sam nine hours of research to find what he needed. The amulet was rare, only seventeen in existence, but Sam had a pretty good idea how to get their hands on one. That, combined with some fancy herbs and tricky Latin, might just be enough. Sam was praying they would be enough.

"And this'll do it?" Dean asked three days after it happened.

Sam was propped up in bed, Dean reading over his shoulder while he scribbled a shopping list on the back of a receipt for gas.

"This'll reverse what the demon did to her?"

"She fed Layla—Ryan—human and demon blood for over a year, Dean. That can't be reversed, just . . . controlled."

Sam turned to check something in a book he'd re-read twelve times to avoid looking at Dean's face. He knew what Dean was thinking about right now. Sam as a baby, helpless in his nursery while that yellow-eyed son of a bitch fed Sam his blood.

"I should get a move on," Dean said, straightening.

He shook the kinks out of his spine and issued an order for Sam to stay in bed or else before going.

Sam was dozing again when Dean got back and set a paper bag on top of the dresser.

"Hey," Sam said yawning.

Dean glanced up, guilt sliding over his features.

"Go back to sleep," he muttered.

"How was the library?" Sam asked, choosing to ignore that.

Dean sighed and sat down on the end of the bed.

"Titillating, Sam. On the plus side, I think I found what we need so I shouldn't have to go back there anytime soon. How 'bout you, huh? You get a hold of Bela?"

Sam nodded, struggling to sit up. Heaving a sigh, Dean went to help him.

"She thinks she can get what we want by the end of the week," he said.

"And how much is that gonna cost us?" Dean asked, shoving an extra pillow behind Sam's back.

"Amazingly enough, no charge. Though she did say this makes us even."

Dean laughed.

"We pull her ass outta Hell, she gives us scrap metal. Sounds about right."

"She sounded kind of funny," Sam said as Dean rounded the bed to stretch out beside him.

"Funny like SWAT team on our asses?" Dean asked. He bumped Sam's shoulder companionably.

"No. Just . . . smug." Sam turned his head to look at his brother. "You didn't . . . sleep with her?"

"What? No. Course not." A beat. "You?"

"No."

"Well, that was awkward," Dean said, and Sam laughed for real.

--

The herbs were easy. They claimed they were medicine—a not-quite lie—and fed them to Ryan with dinner.

The amulet was harder because they had to tell her something. Ryan not remembering what happened was a blessing, and they both wanted to tell her as little as possible.

"The stone means protection," was what Sam finally settled on. He nudged Ryan's ponytail out of the way before working the clasp of the necklace. "As long as you always wear it, you'll be safe."

She fingered the amulet dangling from the chain, frowning slightly. Sam wondered if she believed him. Dean still doubted whether she believed them about her parents, but Sam thought she did. Ryan might not want to listen to them, two virtual strangers, but the feeling in the pit of the stomach was tougher to shake. Sam remembered that feeling well from after Meg had gotten inside him.

"Is it a present?" she asked finally. She glanced between Sam and Dean, uncertain.

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's a present. From Dean and me."

Ryan nodded seriously.

"Maybe you should have given it to me before I broke my arm," she said, and Sam had to smile.

"Maybe you're right," he agreed.

Sarah was great with Ryan. And she wasn't the one to tell her her parents were dead, which meant Ryan was far more willing to climb into Sarah's lap when she woke up from a bad dream. Sometimes Sam watched Sarah soothing Ryan back to sleep, and felt a pull a nostalgia for something that was never really his to begin with.

Sam kept meaning to talk to Sarah, thank her, but he was still sleeping an insane number of hours, and she had to go back to work eventually.

Dean sent him a few knowing looks before finally confronting Sam before bed one night.

"What are you gonna do, dude?" he asked without preamble. "No, don't give me that clueless puppy look. What are you gonna do about Sarah, Sam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said even though he kind of did.

"You could have that, you know." Dean stepped out of his jeans and tugged on a pair of pajama pants.

"Have what?" Sam asked.

But he laid down his book, knowing Dean wasn't just going to let this go. Dean didn't disappoint.

"A normal life. A pretty girl with a hell of a lot of backbone who for some reason . . . some good reasons . . . is willing to put up with your bony ass. You could marry her, have some geek babies. The whole shebang."

Sam smiled.

"Did you just say shebang?" he asked as Dean got into bed beside him.

Dean made a face and flopped over onto his stomach.

"Go to sleep, Sam."

--

It could have been worse. That's what Dean said. Like it was a consolation.

From his perch on the bed, Sam watched Dean pace the room. The attempt was kind of pathetic. Three of Dean's long strides were all it took to cross the small space, and when he reached the wall he rested against it a moment before pushing off like an Olympic swimmer and beginning another lap. Sam was getting nauseous from all the back and forth.

"I mean it. At least we were only . . . " Dean trailed off with a tiny shrug that didn't come close to expressing the enormity of what he and Sam had been doing when Sarah saw them.

What Dean meant was, at least they weren't fucking. Fuck, they weren't even kissing. No, it was more intimate than that, Dean's hand curled around Sam's jaw, Dean's thumbnail scratching a line of possession down Sam's still-bruised cheek. It was the moment before a kiss, the time-stop-pause when you know it's coming.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam had said, even though it was his cheek flaming with pain, stinging under the heat of Dean's hand. Even though it was Dean's fist that inflicted this damage in the first.

"Sam," Dean had said, pressing Sam into the wall between the guest bedroom and the hall bathroom, close enough that Sam could taste two days' worth of sour coffee on his breath. "Sammy."

Sam knew this script, these lines. Bitch was _I love you_. Sammy: _I'd die for you_.

Not again, you won't, Sam had thought. He clamped a hand on the bone of Dean's shoulder. _You're not going anywhere._

And that was when Sarah had come out of her room, her hair still wet from her shower, her face paling, going weirdly, unnaturally white.

It might have been better if she'd walked in on them sucking each other's faces, cocks. At least that could be explained away by exhaustion, perversion, obsession. Too many days, weeks, months on the job. Too many stale-smelling motel rooms with stiff impersonal pillowcases, the same unwashed felt blankets. Too many scalding showers with thin slicks of soap that left a sticky residue behind, like a memory on the skin.

What Sarah witnessed couldn't be explained away by hard hunts and no sleep and the memory of two beautiful golden-haired women, faded and newspaper-thin, so dry and brittle they could burn up in flames. There was no excuse, nothing but Sam and Dean.

Sam stood up, halting Dean mid pace.

"I'm gonna go talk to her."

"Yeah," Dean breathed out. "You should do that."

--

He found Sarah sitting up on the couch, knees folded to one side, elbow bent and resting on the sofa arm and chin cradled in her hand.

Moving further into the room, he could hear the song playing on the speaker system. Garth Brooks _Unanswered Prayers._ Sam smiled. Dean hated that song, thought it presumptuous that God would choose what prayers to answer and ignore. Sam had always found it oddly soothing.

He didn't know what to open with so he decided just to go with, "Hi."

Sarah patted the couch cushion beside her, and after a beat Sam sat down. She was quiet for a long time; he didn't try to rush her.

"I've spent the last two hours," she said finally, "trying to decide what to say to you. I also listened to a hell of a lot of country music."

He wasn't sure whether to chuckle at that, settled for smiling faintly.

"What, uh. What'd you come up with?"

"I was going to start by telling you it's not normal." She held up a hand before he could reply. "Dumb, I know. You're a bright guy, Sam. Stanford right?"

"Yeah, but I never actually graduated. So I don't know if we can hold the university responsible." He tried to smile, relieved when Sarah's lips moved in response.

"And then I thought, their lives haven't exactly been normal either."

No, they really haven't, Sam thought, but he merely tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"I don't have a brother. Or a sister. It's always just been me. When I was younger I didn't care much. I was a pretty independent kid anyway. But, later, and especially after I lost my mother, I wished I had someone. Someone who knew how it felt, how _lonely_ it was."

"Sarah—"

"I don't know what it's like to have a sibling, Sam, but I imagine it makes things less lonely."

"Yeah," Sam breathed out. "Yeah, it does."

"You don't owe me explanations, Sam—"

"I owe you everything."

"—but I can't help wondering about before. When I met you guys, when you and I kissed. Were you and Dean already—?"

"No! No, believe me, Sarah. That—this—didn't happen until later. Until after . . . "

"After Dean almost died, you mean."

"He did die, Sarah." Eight minutes of Dean's body lying on the ground, his skin growing cold under Sam's hands while he wondered if, somewhere, Dean was screaming while his flesh burned. "But actually, if I'm being honest, it happened just before."

That last night, a motel off the interstate in Aurora. Sam wanted to stay someplace nicer, but Dean had just laughed and gunned the engine into the gravel-bitten parking lot of the One Moose Lodge.

"I plan on goin' out in style, Sammy."

While Dean showered, sang _Ring of Fire_ at the top of his lungs, Sam ordered pizza and burgers and the crab rangoons Dean loved. He turned up the thermostat because he _could not get warm_ and waited for the food to come or for Dean to use up all the hot water, whichever came first.

Dean outlasted the first two delivery guys and was just coming out of the bathroom, gray sweatpants slung loose on his hips, as Sam was paying the third.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean had commented, pulling on a shirt while he took in the spread. "I'd say you planned on inviting friends, if, you know, we had any."

Dean loaded a plate with every kind of food Sam had ordered but didn't do more than pick at a few fries. Neither of them was the least bit hungry.

They sat on one of the beds together, shoulders bumping, and watched TV. Sam tried to flick past _Dead Man Walking_ but Dean mumbled, "Leave it."

They watched for maybe twenty minutes before Dean slid off the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, Sam heard the sound of retching. He switched off the TV and got under the covers. He was so fucking cold; it didn't matter how many layers he put on, he wasn't getting warm.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom minutes later he wasn't wearing a shirt. Sam wondered if he'd gotten puke on it. _Don't_, he told himself, _don't you dare cry_. He had to bite down on inside of his lip hard enough to pierce the skin, and still he could feel the telltale tremble of his jaw. He held it together until Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked a rough hand through Sam's hair. Dean's voice was grainy, his breath warm and slightly acidic from throwing up.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam lost it. Furious at Dean, Dad, maybe himself most of all, Sam started to sob. Even as he cursed Dean—_selfish prick, noble son of a bitch_—he mashed his face into his brother's neck, fingers digging into Dean's bicep.

Dean let him go until he was all cried out, empty like a wrung washcloth, exhausted. When Sam finally quit shaking, Dean pulled back a little, rested his palms flat against Sam's shoulders, and pressed a kiss against the sweat-slick skin of Sam's forehead.

Sam blinked rapidly, grateful there was nothing left to cry.

"I love you, Sam," Dean said, simple as anything.

He pulled back, making to stand. Sam's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Dean?" He couldn't have formed a complete sentence, was glad he didn't have to try.

Dean said nothing but, like always, he knew what Sam needed. He dragged down one side of the bedclothes and slid in beside Sam. He shifted until they were close, their breaths tangling in the dark.

"I'm so cold, Sam," Dean whispered. "Fucking freezing."

He could make excuses, blame it on stress, fear, temporary insanity. But Sam knew exactly what he was doing when he stretched his neck out and kissed Dean on the mouth.

"Sam," Dean said hoarsely. "You . . . "

Sam just prodded Dean onto his side, wriggled up behind him. He tucked his knees into the hollows of Dean's, and pressed his hand flat over Dean's heart, counting beats until morning.

The next day, they met Lilith in a field the sun had seared to a crisp gold. She was stronger, faster, and it was eight minutes before Sam could kill her. Eight minutes during which Dean was in Hell, and Sam felt like his lungs were burning through every single one.

Dean passed out almost as soon as Sam dragged him back into his body, and Sam laid on the ground for what seemed like hours, body siphoning heat from the earth as the morning sun warmed the dirt. Beside him, Dean slept like the dead.

Sam had spread his arms and laughed till his sides ached. He remembered thinking that evil felt oddly like falling in love, and then he realized he had fallen in love, had fallen so fucking hard a long time ago, and he rolled onto his knees and vomited into the ashy dirt.

It hadn't been anything like falling in love with Jess.

With Jess, he'd been terrified and elated, unable to think beyond the next time he could kiss her, be with her. Now, sprawled face-down on the sun-caked earth, Dean sleeping the sleep of the dead five feet away, Sam shook with laughter as he realized he and Dean were stuck with each other, stuck until one of them wound up so dead the other couldn't bring him back. In that moment, Sam wanted to kill Dean, tear him apart with his bare hands or else use his hands for entirely other means, and so he had left Dean lying there in the dirt. And ran.

Sam wished he didn't remember what happened in the five months that followed but figured it was only right that he did.

It wasn't like being possessed. There was no one inside Sam but Sam, and all that blood rightfully belonged on his hands. Sam had no doubt that it was Dean who brought him back. He didn't know how Dean had done it, but somehow, someway he had.

After, he kept catching Dean watching him. Staring like he half expected Sam to suffer a mental breakdown. At least break down and cry on his shoulder a few times. Sam didn't do any of that. He knew he couldn't make up for what he had done, and that the only thing that came close was to keep on fighting. Keep saving people.

There was no point in regretting what was past when he would have made the same choices over again. When it came to Dean, there was no choice.

"I wish you hadn't told me that, Sam," Sarah said when he was done.

Sam felt exhausted, his neck limp and unable to support his head.

"Not because I think it's disgusting or wrong," she explained. "But because it almost makes me understand, and I really, really didn't want to understand it, Sam."

"I don't know that I totally understand it, either," he admitted, smiling.

Sarah angled her head, lips pursed as she studied Sam through dark eyes that saw too much.

"Tell me something, Sam. Are you happy? Does he make you happy?"

Sam laughed, low in his throat.

"We drive each other crazy. But we can live with that."

--

They needed time, space to rest and recuperate, and while Sarah claimed otherwise, Sam figured she could use some time to herself. Though none of them said it, there was another good reason to leave. It was best that Ryan not get attached to another person she was going to lose.

Sam and Dean discussed the situation for approximately two minutes before getting on the phone. Bobby was holed up in some Podunk in Montana, taking care of a ghoul infestation, but assured Dean they were more than welcome at his place. Only he didn't put it quite like that. (_You idjits really need to ask?)_

They argued about it for a while and, even though it was out of the way, they wound up driving back to Maine so Ryan could see the house. They were afraid she wouldn't ever really believe it otherwise. In as un-terrifying a manner as they could manage, they sat her down and explained about demons and the bad things lurking in the dark and, with some significant revisions, what had happened to her parents. They told her they'd keep her safe, and though they half-expected her to run screaming to the next cop she saw, she never did. She didn't remember those first few weeks she spent with Sam and Dean, but she seemed instinctively to trust them. Dean thought it was dumb luck but Sam sort of knew better. He felt connected to her, in a way that might have started with Lilith but had become so much bigger than that.

Bobby was in Idaho when they arrived—apparently he'd detoured to Boise to handle some killer bats—so the three of them settled in.

Sam had never seen a seven-year old mourn before.

Ryan spent hours in her room, coloring with an old box of Crayolas they found in a drawer in the kitchen. At night, she stayed up with them watching TV, preferring Bobby's huge old armchair to a spot on the couch. They watched VHS tapes on his ancient player—_Pete's Dragon_ and _The Cat from Outer Space;_ a copy of _Flight of the Navigator_ that Dean had played so many times when they were kids that there were five minutes of blue screen in the middle.

When she had bad dreams, they took turns sitting in the chair beside her bed. Once, Sam caught Dean singing to her in a low tuneful voice; he had crept back to their room before Dean heard him.

About a week after they arrived, Sam and Dean were sitting at the table one morning, drinking coffee and reading the paper when Ryan came into the kitchen.

She stood in front of their chairs, holding a hairbrush in one hand, a pair of thick elastic bands in the other. She was wearing the necklace they gave her, the amulet dangling over the collar of her t-shirt.

"Can you do pigtails?" she asked, glancing from one to the other, and Dean had grinned and reached out for the brush and Ryan.

Sam figured things were going to work out okay after that. Not every kid could survive what she did, but Ryan was anything but ordinary. She was theirs, and okay, maybe that was sappy, but Sam felt like they were due for a little sappiness. They had a right to it after everything they'd suffered and lost, paid out in flesh-pounds and blood-quarts, bodies salted and burned. The way Sam perceived it, the world owed him and Dean and payday was long overdue.

His stomach wound was healing cleanly, if a little slowly for his taste. Especially when Dean kept insisting that Sam not over-exert himself. He put up with it for the first couple weeks, knowing it couldn't have been a picnic for Dean to watch him take that knife to the gut. But seriously, enough was enough.

Two weeks after they arrived at Bobby's, Sam woke to the sound of rain driving down on the roof of the house. He levered himself up onto his elbows to peer through the window. Beyond the water-glazed glass, the sky was just turning, the black of the previous night fading to a cold, gunmetal gray. Sam guessed it was five or five-thirty.

They had fallen asleep sometime after two, staying up far too late watching the awful horror flicks Dean loved. But they didn't have to do anything today besides putter around the house making small repairs, and later muster the energy to cook dinner. Sam figured a little pre-dawn fooling-around wouldn't hurt too much. In fact, he was hoping it would do some good.

"I can hear freaking birds chirping," Dean muttered, the words mostly mushed into the pillow.

He was sprawled on his belly, naked to the waist where Sam had dragged the sheet and arms flung at either side so he took up almost the entire bed. Sam straddled Dean's hips, fingers splaying his back in search of sore patches.

"So?" Sam asked after a while.

Dean seemed to have lost the thread of conversation around the time Sam found a particularly vicious knot in his right shoulder. It was several seconds before he replied.

"So, if the birds are just getting up, I sure as hell shouldn't be," he said finally.

Sam laughed and after a few more minutes rolled off Dean and to the side, tugging Dean with him. He knew better than to use the word spooning, which didn't make it any less accurate a description for what they were doing.

"Go 'way," Dean said, arching his neck to give Sam better access. "Ugh, hate when you do that."

He rolled his hips, grinding his ass into Sam's erection.

"I know you do," Sam apologized, delivering another sucking kiss to the warm curve of Dean's shoulder.

Dean rolled over to glare through a single eye, the other squeezed tight against the faint glimmer that passed for sunlight.

"I'm not into morning sex at all, dude."

"I guess I forgot," Sam said, and leaned in to kiss the corner of Dean's mouth.

Dean's lips were soft, probably from the little tube of chapstick he kept in the pocket of his jeans, rubbed on when he thought Sam wasn't looking. Sam wondered if Hell was particularly drying, because Dean had never done that before. Of course, if Sam wanted to keep his own lips in their current state—i.e. not bruised and bleeding—he would never be posing that particular question to Dean. So he wouldn't break out into a grin, he darted forward and sucked Dean's sex-swollen lower lip into his mouth. He let go, shoving the curve of his mouth against Dean's ear.

"We can stop if you want, man," he breathed hot and wet into Dean's ear canal.

He started to roll away, and that was when Dean snorted, pushed Sam over onto his back.

"Well I'm already up now."

Dean kissed down Sam's chest and belly, alternating hard bruising ones with the feather-light kind, barely a touch. He got as far as the white bandage above Sam's left hip and stopped, fingers tracing around its edges.

"I'm not that breakable," Sam felt the need to assure him, arching up a little so Dean could feel just how weak he wasn't.

Dean snorted, mumbled something that sounded like, "Quit molesting me," before sliding his thumbs under the waist of Sam's boxers and dragging them down.

Keeping up a steady downward path with his mouth, he spanned his hands over Sam's chest. His fingers plucked at Sam's nipple, which was really more Dean's thing than Sam's. Dean seemed distracted though, lost in his own thoughts. Sam opened his mouth to say something, snapped it shut again when he felt Dean's lips wrap around the head of his dick.

"Fuck," Sam hissed, trying not to thrust up.

Dean made a sound that would probably have been a snort if his mouth wasn't, uh, full at that moment. Sam surrendered to wet suction and the knowing flick of Dean's tongue. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt weighted, his lashes coated with glue. When he pried them apart at last, he saw Dean watching him. Making sure, like always, that Sammy was all right.

It was several seconds before he could muster the strength to grab Dean's shoulders, and several more before he could convince Dean he wanted him to stop and not go faster, harder, deeper.

Dean made a sound like, _what the fuck_, and Sam cringed.

"Sorry. Sorry, just. You enjoy this, don't you?" he blurted out before he could censor himself. "I mean, you wanna be here, right?"

Dean gave him a _look_, then snagged Sam's hand and moved it to cover his own dick through the taut fabric of his shorts.

"No, Sam, I don't." He rolled his eyes and moved to cover Sam again.

"Dean. Dean, I'm serious. I need to know that you feel good about this. And not just when you're getting off, but after too. I need to know you're okay with all this. Because this is it, man. This is us, and the next thirty years. So if you're not okay about it, now's the time to speak up."

"Seriously?" Dean sat up and rubbed a hand over his hair, which was bed-rumpled and kind of sexy. "You're seriously pulling this right now?"

"I have to know," Sam said stubbornly, and Dean sighed.

Sam sat up, too. He felt a little ridiculous having this conversation naked but figured Dean had seen him in worse conditions. And, really, the conversation was long overdue.

"I'm okay, alright?" Dean said. "I'd be downright amazing if you shut up and let me get you off."

"That's another thing."

"What?" Dean said, suspicious. "What's another thing?"

"I'm not the only one in this relationship, man. You're here too."

Dean hesitated, mouth opening and closing like he got off to a few false starts.

"Where the hell is this coming from, Sam? Did I do something to make you think I don't wanna be here? I've got your dick in my mouth, dude. What more do you want?"

"I wanna know it's what you want, Dean! Did you do something that makes me wonder? How about selling your soul for me? It's no secret that you'd do anything for me, and I love you for it, man, I do. But if this isn't what you want too then it has to stop. I couldn't live with this if you didn't want it too."

Dean said nothing for several seconds. Then he pushed back the blankets and got up. Sam watched him hop comically, struggling to yank on his jeans.

"Dean. Dean, where are you going?" he asked as Dean reached for a shirt.

Dean shot him a last glance as he yanked open the door.

"Leave me alone for a while, Sam."

--

Sam brought him a cup of coffee and a baseball cap because, though the rain had slowed, it was still falling in fits and starts. Dean ignored the latter but accepted the former with a grunt. He took a tentative sip, as though Sam might try to poison him with weak coffee. Apparently satisfied, he drank again, deeper this time, and wrapped his hands around the mug.

Dean had spent the past hour sitting on the porch in the rain and was thoroughly soaked, jeans and t-shirt clinging to his skin. He must be freezing, but being Dean, he didn't come inside.

Sam didn't bother trying to speak to Dean until he'd drained half the coffee and was looking slightly less likely to commit a murder in the next five minutes.

"So," Sam said at last, "are we going to talk about this?"

Dean turned slowly, and Sam wondered if he'd spoken too soon about Dean not being homicidal.

"Okay," Dean said finally. Reaching out, he eased the ball cap free of Sam's grasp, slapped it down on his head. "Let's talk about you ruining perfectly good morning sex with all that touchy-feely bullshit."

Sam nodded and fixed his eyes on the horizon. He thought the sun would break through by noon, dry everything out.

"You know what, Dean?" he said, voice even. "Bite me."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you really wanna do this? Because we can have the conversation where you gripe about me acting like a girl and I say you're a Neanderthal jackass, but honestly? I'm tired, and it's raining, and we both know I'd win in the end. So how 'bout we just skip all that and you tell me what you're thinking, yeah?"

Dean didn't hit Sam, though he looked like he might want to. He didn't even seem all that surprised, just resigned and a little sad maybe.

"It's wrong, Sam," he said, tugging the brim of the ball cap lower so his eyes were half-hidden. "That's just fact, plain and simple."

Sam suddenly needed to be on his feet, to be moving, and he pushed off the porch step.

"Is it, Dean? I mean, who are we really hurting? It's not like one of us is gonna give birth to babies with antlers or anything."

Dean blinked at him.

"Dude, are you high again?"

Sam felt the raindrops skate down the sides of his face, and it felt good. Cleansing.

"I'm not saying it's normal. But when have our lives ever been normal, Dean?"

Dean stood up too, stepped forward until he had Sam backed against the porch rail. Rain dripped off the brim of Dean's ball cap, beneath which Dean's face was pale and tight.

"We'll be outcasts forever, Sammy. I don't know what kind of fantasy world you're living in, but people—they won't ever be okay with this. With you and me. You're never gonna get that regular life you're always talking about. You ready to just give up on that?"

"I've been thinking about it," Sam said, "And there is a way. For us to have a, quote on quote, normal life. At least in other people's eyes."

Dean scoffed.

"Oh, yeah? What's that, genius?"

"We stop being brothers."

Dean looked like he'd just taken a punch in the gut, or someplace less pleasant. He released Sam, backing up. The rain was picking up now, drops falling faster and closer together.

"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?" he asked, voice hoarse, and even though Sam knew better he wondered if Dean was catching cold already.

"We stop telling people we're brothers. It shouldn't be that much of a stretch for us. Half the time we say we're partners or coworkers or a dozen other lies anyway."

Dean was quiet for a long while, and when he spoke there was something new in his voice. Something Sam couldn't identify right away but might have been hope.

"You wanna talk about lying, Sam? We do this, we'll be lying forever."

Sam followed Dean out into the yard, careful to keep his distance.

"Is it even a lie, Dean? There's not a word for what you are to me. Brother doesn't begin to cover it. I don't know of any brothers like us. Lover? That's true, but not the half of it."

"So, what, you're gonna tell people I'm your boyfriend?" Dean scoffed. "Your domestic partner?"

"I don't care what we call it, Dean. It's nothing but a stupid label to make other people feel comfortable. All I care about is that we can live with it, man. I just want . . . I wanna get on with our lives, Dean. I wanna have one," he added with something like a laugh.

"I want you to have one too, Sammy. All those things you've been wanting since we were kids--"

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shook him.

"No! You're not listening to me. I need you to listen, Dean. I need you. Okay?"

"Jesus, I'm listening."

"No. I _need_ you. I can't lose you again, man."

"Like you could get rid of me," Dean snorted. After a moment, his hands came up to rest on the sides of Sam's face. "I'm not going anywhere, Sam. No matter what, I'll always be there."

"That's not what I—fuck!" He pushed away. "Am I misreading you, Dean? I mean, I know you love me. But is this really what you want? Because if it's not you gotta tell me, man."

Dean huffed air through his nostrils and sighed, sighed again. He was quiet for so long that Sam started to worry.

"Dean—"

"I'm not gonna repeat myself so you better fucking listen." He had one arm pressed over his eyes, blocking them from Sam's gaze. "I—_damn you, Sam_, for making me say this. I fucking want it, all right? I like kissing you and touching you and sucking you. And I—I like when you do the same for me. Yeah, I love you, Sammy, like a goddamn part of me, my skin or something, but beyond that I like you. You're . . . well, you're a man now, one I can be proud of. So, yeah, I want you. Do I have moments, days, where I think I'm damning us both? Yeah. But that doesn't stop me from wanting you so bad it hurts."

Dean inhaled slowly through his nose, and Sam was amazed he made it that long without oxygen.

"I want you, Sam," he said softly. "When I go to sleep at night and when I wake up in the morning. But right now? Right now what I really want is for you to shut the fuck up and not make eye contact when I take my arm away from my face, do you think you can do that?"

Sam's brain had jammed up somewhere around 'proud' and he was having trouble shaping his mouth into words.

"Well, Jesus, Sam," Dean breathed, the words tumbling out on an expulsion of air. "You gonna say something?" he demanded, apparently forgetting his request that Sam shut up.

"Wow," Sam said finally. "I never realized you were such a girl."

Dean blinked at him for a second before his mouth curved into a smirk.

"I take it back."

"What? You can't," Sam protested.

The rain was falling in sheets again, and he didn't care. He wanted to grab Dean by the hair and kiss him, to hell with who happened to see.

"Yeah, I can," Dean protested.

Sam shook his head, spraying water everywhere.

"You're a romantic, Dean. Who'dve thought?"

"If you _ever_ say that again, this is so off."

--

Bobby showed up three days later with a shiner and tales of killer bats.

He told them while he made dinner, homemade lasagna, and Sam thought he might cry a little when he tasted it. Who knew Bobby could cook?

After supper, Dean and Ryan passed out on the couch in the middle of the second _Indiana Jones_. When the credits started to roll, Sam got up and stretched before wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water. He wasn't all that surprised when Bobby followed him.

Bobby went for the coffeemaker, even though it was almost eleven. A box of cereal stood open on the counter, and Sam reached inside for a handful.

"You and Dean," Bobby said, and Sam waited for Bobby to finish the thought before realizing with gut-clenching clarity that he already had.

His heart beat fast and hard against the walls of his ribcage. He swallowed, the dry cereal stabbing at the back of his throat.

"I'm not an idiot, Sam. I'm also not your daddy. Ain't my job to tell you how to live your lives. "

"This you giving us your blessing?" Sam said, and Bobby's head snapped up so fast, eyes narrowed to angry slits, that he immediately regretted it.

"It sure as shit isn't that, Sam."

"Bobby. I know it's hard to understand—"

"I'm not looking for explanations."

"If you want us to go, we will. We'll leave in the morning."

"Dammit, Sam. All we've been through, you and your brother and your daddy and me, are you really gonna pull that? Just because families don't agree, or understand each other always, doesn't mean you throw out the baby with the bathwater. Jesus, Sam, I thought you were smarter'n that."

Sam had to stare at the scuffed linoleum for several seconds before he could trust himself to meet Bobby's gaze.

"How long have you known?"

"If I'm being honest? Probably since the day you died and your brother brought you back. But the easy answer is this afternoon when I caught you two playing footsie under the table."

Sam flushed but forced himself to meet Bobby's eye.

"And?"

"And what?" Bobby prompted.

"We're gonna keep Ryan," Sam said.

"I figured as much."

"That's it?" Sam pressed. "No comment?"

Bobby raised a brow over the rim of his coffee cup.

"If I had something to say, Sam," he growled, "you can bet your ass I'd say it."

They were quiet for several moments. Sam ate another handful of cereal.

"Dean and I aren't sure where we'll end up yet. But we'd like to come by now and then." Sam shrugged and offered a smile. "I want her to have a Bobby."

Bobby paused, face pink and coffee mug halted halfway to his lips.

"I, uh. Need to take a leak," he muttered before walking out of the room.

Sam waited until his heart rate had dipped to more reasonable speeds before rinsing out his glass and going back into the den.

Ryan had fallen asleep on Dean's chest, one of his arms draped loosely along her back. Sam took a moment to marvel at how fast she had become theirs the second time before reaching down to lift her. Dean stirred when the weight of her was off him, and Sam made a shushing sound.

"I'm gonna put her to bed. You can go back to sleep if you want, man."

Sam slid Ryan into the cot they'd set up in one of Bobby's infinite 'spare' rooms. He ran a hand over her head and murmured for her to sleep tight before drawing the door closed behind him.

When Sam got back to their room, Dean was waiting, seated on the end of the bed in his boxers, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey," Sam said, and Dean jerked his head in what probably passed for hello in Dean's world.

"Ryan out for the count?" he asked finally.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said. He pulled his shirt over his head. "I probably could have brushed her teeth and she wouldn't have stirred. Should I have brushed her teeth?"

Dean snorted.

"Uh. Speaking of Ryan?"

"Yeah?" Sam asked. He stripped off his jeans, figured it was warm enough he could skip the pajama pants.

"You're not . . . I don't know, sick of her following you around?"

Sam raised a brow.

"She's a little girl, Dean. Not a Saint Bernard."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I know that, dude. Just . . . when I was twenty-six, last thing I'dve wanted was a seven-year-old dogging my every move. Cramping my style."

Sam smiled, lowered himself down on the bed. His leg was warm where it pressed the length of his brother's.

"You had a seven-year old dogging your every move when you were eleven," Sam reminded him gently, and Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well."

"She needs us, Dean. And I . . . I want to do this."

Dean nodded seriously.

"Yeah, I do too."


	3. Epilogue

Epilogue

Epilogue

He's up to his elbows in slick engine grease when he hears the car pull up in front of the house. The door opens, releasing a wave of female laughter that would make any sane person nervous. A second later, the door's slamming shut again, and Dean wriggles out from under the Impala in time to wave his thanks as Mrs. Kowoski drives off.

At the base of the drive, Ryan takes a second to twist her blond hair back into a ponytail before hefting her backpack again. She strolls up and leans against the side of the car. Even after spending all day working on cars at the garage, it still feels good to have the Impala's grease under his nails.

"Well?" Ryan says when Dean does nothing but arch a brow at her.

"Well, what?" Dean asks.

"Aren't you gonna ask how my first day of high school was?"

Dean mops his forehead with the back of his wrist, then reaches for the can of root beer sweating circles on the pavement.

"Uh uh," he says, swigs long and deep.

"Why not?" she demands, and he has to duck his head, feign interest in a speck of grease under his thumbnail to hide his smirk.

"Because my kid just had her first day of high school and I feel old enough already, okay? I'm not gonna be the parent who's all, 'How was school today?' on top of it."

Ryan grins, and Dean's struck by how, well, pretty she is. Something turns over in his stomach.

"School was fine. Do you wanna hear about my classes?"

He smirks and reaches into the cooler for another root beer, pops the top and hands it over.

"Okay, but I didn't ask," he says just to be clear, before lowering himself to the curb at the edge of the yard. His knee never used to creak when he did that, but he figures, all the abuse his and Sam's bodies have taken over the years, it's a wonder anything still works the way it was meant to.

Ryan smothers her own grin with a sip of soda and sits on the curb beside him.

"Later, okay? Can I talk to you about something first?"

"Oh, Christ. Are you in trouble? Do I gotta go for a parent-teacher conference or something?"

"When have I ever gotten in trouble at school?"

He taps his fist gently against her shoulder.

"Tom Watts ringing any bells there, slugger?"

"Tom Watts was a racist and a homophobe. And I was nine. Anyway, he totally deserved to get punched."

"No argument here."

"When have I gotten in trouble since then?"

"Never. But I keep hopin' you're gonna live up to my family name. Do the Winchesters proud."

Ryan blinks and before she can stop it a tiny frown wrinkles her forehead.

Dean reaches out to flick her on the arm.

"I'm kidding."

"I know," she says with just a hint of smartass, and Dean hides a smirk. She may not be a Winchester by birth, but that tone is all Sam.

"I thought you wanted to talk to me about something," he reminds her.

"I did." She raises her face and offers Dean her most innocent-seeming smile. "So there's a party Friday night, and I really want to go."

"I knew it."

He snaps his fingers.

"Knew what?" she demands.

"Just outta curiosity, are there gonna be boys at this party of yours?"

"No, Dean. It's a lesbian party."

He stares a good few seconds until she rolls her eyes.

"Yes, there will be boys. But they're all really sweet and totally respectful—" She breaks off to glare. "Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you, Ry. Just—teenage boys definitely aren't sweet. And sometimes they're not even respectful."

She sighs long-sufferingly, another Sam-erism. "Will you think about it?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking. And, yeah, uh, no."

"State your objections," she says, arms folding.

"Okay, _Sam_. Let's see. How 'bout we start with the part where you're fourteen years old with long blond hair? Oh yeah, and you own a miniskirt."

"That's sexist."

"I knew you were gonna say that," he grumbles. "I'll talk it over with Sam, okay?"

She nods like it's settled but tugs her lower lip between her teeth, a sure indicator that something's still bugging her.

"Speaking of Sam, where is he? Do you think he'll be home soon?"

"What's wrong, you need help with your homework? Geometry trouble?"

"No, and I wouldn't ask Sam for help with geometry anyway. Even you're better at math than he is."

"Thanks for that." He leans back, legs stretching out before him. "Was there something else you wanted to talk about?" he asks casually.

He doesn't quite look at her when he says it.

"Yeah."

"You wanna wait for Sam?"

"It's okay," she shrugs. "I'd rather talk to you guys separately."

Dean hides a smile with his soda can.

"You're not supposed to tell us your divide and conquer plans. It works better when you go behind our backs."

"Do you wanna sit down?" she blurts out.

Dean raises a brow, gestures at the curb beneath them.

"Oh, right." She blushes. "I may have rehearsed this a little."

He watches her hunch forward, stretching her hands to touch her toes. She still pushes her face into his shoulder when they watch scary movies. He wonders how many years of that he's got left.

"So my body's been going through some changes lately."

Dean feels his face heat on top of all the sun he's gotten that day. He opens his mouth, then lets it snap shut again.

"I thought the, uh, change, happened a year ago."

"It did. This is . . . I don't know, residual, I guess. I've been remembering things from when I was a kid."

"Oh?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, a cold, greasy ball of fear just starting to rotate in his belly. "What kind of things?"

He follows her gaze across the street. The Barragers' beagle is yapping like crazy as the four-year old chases it around the yard.

"Things I haven't thought about in a long time. Since I've been with you and Sam. I remember my mom making spaghetti sauce from scratch. Chopping garlic and rolling ground beef into meatballs. I remember my dad had a beard, and that once he took me swimming in a river and it was cold, the water was so cold."

Dean wages a brief internal debate, and he isn't sure if he won or lost when he casually slings an arm over her shoulders, squeezes a little. With something like relief, he feels her sink into him.

"Do you remember what happened to them?" he asks hesitantly. "Your parents."

She shakes her head jerkily.

"I tried but . . . there's just this big white blur around that night. I can't remember anything."

Dean feels gratitude toward someone he isn't even sure he believes in roll over him in cool waves. If he could ask for anything, it would be that she go the rest of her life without remembering that particular truth.

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he ventures. "Ask me, I bet your mom and dad would want you to remember the good times—spaghetti sauce and swimming in the river—and not the night they died."

"I guess. I remember being with _her_, too. The demon that took me. Just snippets," she added, answering his unspoken question. "Like, having to sit very still while she walked around me. Talking in a language I didn't understand. And I remember her saying she was my mother and telling me to drink something that tasted really bad. Crying because I didn't want to. I remember being in this room that felt big and open. I remember being scared."

She doesn't say anything for a while, and Dean doesn't push. After a few minutes, she pulls away, turning to meet his eye.

"I also started to remember those first few weeks after you and Sam found me."

His face is hot, sweat dripping down from the ends of his hair, camping out in his pores. He turns his gaze back to the Barragers' yard where Mavis the Beagle is now chasing the four-year old.

"Snippets again?" he asks dully.

"I know you're brothers," she says, her voice soft but clear enough; he has to ask anyway.

"What did you say?" His voice doesn't waver, but it takes all his effort to keep it steady.

"You and Sam. I know."

"I dunno what you think you remember, Ryan, but—"

"Dean, just cut the shit, okay?"

"Don't say 'shit'," he says, and that's stupid, so stupid lecturing her for cussing when he . . . when he and Sam—

"I'm not angry, okay? Yeah, it was weird at first, but I'm not even that freaked out anymore. I know you haven't told me everything about your lives pre the awesomeness that is me, but I get it. Things were bad. Sometimes really bad."

"Ryan," he croaks, can't go on.

"I'm mostly just upset that you guys lied to me. But I guess I understand why you did, at least at first. Still, I'm fourteen now, I'm starting my freshman year of _high school_. I'm old enough that you guys could have told me."

"When, Ryan?" Now that he's found his voice, he wants to yell or at the very least be indignant. "When exactly should we have told you? When you were ten? Twelve? When's the right time to find out your two gay guardians also happen to be brothers?"

"I was hoping you trusted me more than that," she says, pulling a hurt face that always scores her points.

Dean's not buying it.

"It's illegal, Ryan. In, oh yeah, every country ever."

"And we never do illegal things in this family."

Sarcasm. Great. Where the hell is Sam?

"We do illegal things 'cause it lets us help people. Mostly. But this, what Sam and I . . . this ain't about helping people. Half the time, I can't even be sure we're not hurting anyone, least of all you."

"I think I turned out okay. You and Sam forget that I'm a freak too." She reaches under her collar and tugs out the amulet she still wears on a chain, even though Sam is pretty sure she no longer needs it, hasn't for awhile. "I'd probably be in a mental institution if it wasn't for you guys. But you didn't have to keep me. You could have dropped me off at the closest police station and bailed.

"Yeah, well, we thought you'd be better at math. Figured we could take you to Vegas or something."

"You didn't have to keep me," she says again, her voice soft like she's not really joking around anymore.

"Yeah, well, we got kind of attached."

"Me too."

"Ryan. Jesus." He stands on shaking knees, scrubbing his face with both hands.

Ryan gets to her feet too, smoothing curb-dust from the seat of her pants. She grabs his arms at the wrists and tugs them down by his sides.

"Nothing has to change, okay? I'm going to talk to Sam, too, because I want him to know I know, and that I'm not gonna freak. But I won't tell another soul. I promise." She stares at him, and her eyes are the same wide innocent brown as they were when she was seven.

"Do you think we should hug now?" she asks, mouth serious but eyes lighting with humor.

Dean tells her to go do her damn homework.

--

He waits for Sam on the back porch—just a slab of concrete overlooking a square of underwatered lawn that separates their house from the Freemans'. It isn't much—two bedrooms and a bath, living room and kitchen—but it represents three years of hard work (some of it honest) and a lot of creative legal finagling. It means something to be able to give Ryan this—a real home—even if it took till she was ten to do it. They've been here four years now, four good years, and Dean hasn't taken a single damn day for granted.

Dean's still hoping that they'll have that sun porch one day, a place in the woods. He likes the idea of being so deep into Nowhere that no one can find them. So far out that, if he wants, he can lay Sam down on a blanket in the backyard; make him scream so hard he'd wake the neighbors, if they had any. Of course those things may have to wait until Ryan is in college, which is so far away it's not even worth thinking about. Dean doesn't think about it very often.

He hears the creak of the screen door opening at his back, the soft snick of it closing again. He feels Sam's presence before his brother joins him on the step. If Dean were turned blind and deaf—and there had been that one curse a few years back—he's pretty sure he could recognize Sam by smell alone: laundry soap and Sam's office, coconut shampoo and the Oreos he and Ryan ate by the package.

Without looking over, Dean reaches for the second glass he brought out here with him, passes it to Sam.

"Whiskey? What for?"

Now Dean does turn to look, meets Sam's slightly bemused gaze.

"She didn't talk to you?" Dean asks, brow arching.

Sam nods knowingly.

"No, she did. Just . . . I've known for a while. Knew that she knew, I mean."

"How exactly did you . . .?" He lets the question trail off, realizing the answer. "So you two are still joined at the psychic, I take it."

"Nah, not really. It's not like I know what she's doing at every moment."

"That's too bad," Dean says, and at Sam's questioning gaze, "Woulda been useful in a couple years when she starts dating."

Sam laughs, and leans over to bump Dean's shoulder with his. Through an open window, Dean can hear Ryan chattering away on her cell phone, the words merging into a happy indistinct drone.

"I don't know about you, man, but I don't wanna know what she's doing every second." Sam reaches around Dean to sit his half-drunk glass on the porch. Seconds later, Dean feels a hand, warm and Sam-big, ruck up his shirt, rub gentle circles over his lower back.

In this moment, Dean's biggest complaints are the mosquitoes drinking at his ankles and a teenage girl running up his cell phone bill. He's disgustingly lucky, and he refuses to let himself forget it, ever.

"So how'd you know, then?" Dean says when he could focus enough to recall the thread of conversation.

"I could just tell," Sam says shrugging. "We may not be psychically joined anymore, but she and I still have a lot in common."

"Like Lilith for example?"

"More than Lilith."

Sam's hand stills and Dean waits a beat, makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat. Sam laughs and resumes rubbing out knots.

Dean's reaching around to lift the rest of Sam's drink when he heard the creak of the door opening again. The instinct to yank Sam's hand from under his shirt is still there but fainter now, like a paling memory. They both turn.

"Are you guys being gross?" Ryan demands, then flushes pink under the porch light. "Not that—I mean, I do think it's gross, but only because you're like my parents. Ew. But this girl at school—Maddie? She's captain of the JV soccer team. She thinks you're both really cute and wants to sleep over next weekend. Can she?"

Sam laughs and pulls his hand out from under Dean's shirt.

"It's still this week, Ry. Ask us again closer to the fact."

"Okay." She turns a severe gaze to Dean. "Did you talk to him about the party?"

"What? Oh, right. Yeah, no." He wonders if he's old enough for memory loss to start kicking in. At least his hair is still _totally awesome_, he thinks, running a hand over his head.

"No you didn't talk to him, or no I can't go?" she asks, hopping from foot to foot. Barefoot and wearing Hello, Kitty shorts, one of his old t-shirts with a rip in the hem, she looks almost like a kid again. Not, Jesus, like the young woman she's becoming.

"What party?" Sam asks, and Dean stretches his arms behind his back while Ryan explains about somebody's birthday or bat mitzvah or coronation; he was starting to fade.

"What do you think?" Sam asks, elbowing Dean in the ribs and flashing a look that means, _It's okay with me_. Dean has the feeling that Ry is smart enough to pick up on their nonverbal cues by now, but she's also wise enough not to let on that she can.

"No eloping to Vegas, that's just tacky," Dean orders around a yawn. "And don't drink anything anybody else pours you."

"Dean," Sam coughs, giving him another look entirely.

"And no drinking," Dean add quickly.

"Thank you, thank you, you guys are the best!" she says all in one breath.

She goes back inside, the screen door clattering closed behind her.

"We're gonna have to really talk to her about drinking soon," Sam says with a sigh. "And other stuff."

"Yeah, lemme know how that goes," Dean jokes, raising his hand to stifle another yawn.

"It's like nine thirty," Sam says, shaking his head in mock disgust. "How old are you?"

"Bitch, I been up since six."

Sam grins.

"Wanna go inside? See if I can find some way of keeping you awake for the next hour or so?"

Dean smirks, and shifts around on the step so theirs shoulders touch once again.

"In a minute. 'S kinda nice here. Let's enjoy it."

END


End file.
